I always thought Father Brown a necrophiliac.

When I was an acolyte, I saw him perform

funerals where he looked at the dead women 

the same as he did my deceased grandmother.

His green eyes overlooked her simple

ivory coffin decorated with stargazer lilies

(anthers removed to prevent the pollen

from ruining her favorite frock), and settled

on her now gaunt face.

Father Brown called me to the lectern

to read the poem I prepared

along with a few verses from Romans,

chosen by my (ex-Christian) Buddhist uncle.

I used the word "crap"

to keep with the rhyme scheme,

which drew a few gasps

from the Chinese congregation.

I ended with, "I love you," something I said

often, but never heard first. Granny

never started anything, even saying I love you;

hers was more of a P.S.