Discourse of a Catholic Suicide

     There is a cheap porcelain vase
centered on a mantle of wilting flowers.
A few blurred and faded photographs
reveal what of your memory remains.
Stricken by your Mariana’s eyes
I felt the depth of all you left behind
the day the old man nearly fainted.
Now he speaks of reason and faith
as his eyes trace the kitchen floor,
and the old woman laughs
a hollow laugh of swallowed mourning,
her heart sewn with a thread of pills.
Within silent reservation I hear
the discourse of a Catholic suicide.
So what of Heaven? I wonder,
and leave it as your child grasps my hand.