Bequest
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.
by Eunice de Souza
from Ways of Belonging: Selected Poems
publisher: Polygon, Edinburgh, 1990