Eunice de Souza
Bequest - Poem 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
smiling endlessly, vacuously
like a plastic flower,
saying Child, learn from me.
It's time to perform an act of charity
bequeath the heart, like a
preferably to an enemy.
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