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Bequest by Eunice de Souza

In every Catholic home there’s a picture
of Christ holding his bleeding heart
in his hand.
I used to think, ugh.

The only person with whom
I have not exchanged confidences
is my hairdresser.

Some recommend stern standards.
Others say float along.
He says, take it as it comes,
meaning, of course, as he hands it out.

I wish I could be a
Wise Woman
smiling endlessly, vacuously
like a plastic flower,
saying Child, learn from me.

It’s time to perform an act of charity
to myself,
bequeath the heart, like a
spare kidney –
preferably to an enemy.

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