The final conversation on the ledge
circles around, a seemingly indifferent hawk
until it spots the luckless fish
sucking at luckless mosquitoes 
at the rim of water separating the
lake from the sky.
Someone always says, “I don’t understand.”
Does anyone ever say, “I know what you meant.”?
The headline: “The Most Beautiful Suicide” as if
it was it meant to be a slogan? Or a title like Miss America or DOA?
The picture, such a personal intrusion on such a public act.
One can’t help but notice the crossed legs of someone
reading the Sunday paper, and the gloved clenched fists
of someone angry or sleeping through a nightmare
after reading the Sunday paper.
The scratched out note declaring failure to live up to
the picture of perfection. A final rebellion or a broken spirit?
The absence of blood is not the same as the absence of
violence. And death cannot banish the truth.
Evelyn Francis McHale