The Details
The details of your suicide
haunt me. Your clothes
folded, layered from largest
to lightest. The Gap sweatpants,
cashmere t-shirt, high caliber lace underwear.
Removed and creased just so.
as if they might be worn again.
A neat coordinated pile
on the toilet seat next to
your deadly hot bathwater. Notes
written to both of your daughters
describe for them the gift of your death.
Gouge out their lives with
your inability to choose something else.
The picture of Jesus you hung
at your eye’s level glance as you
eased your body into the water. His wounds
weep and are companion
to your brittle act.
The red wine and codeine
in your blood as it flowed from
well researched slices
deep enough to matter.
Inevitably it is
that well ordered stack
of your clothes, that lifetime of habit.
You organize death
as you did cocktail parties,
stock portfolios. Carefree vacations.
Control that excludes everyone.
This vividness holds
as your face fades.
© annie fahy 2017
