Sue Thomas

THE SUICIDE'S DAUGHTER

It is almost Easter.

It is morning
and I have midterms I will never take,
papers due that will not be written.

In the car is a hat my mother insisted I buy
that I will never wear––
wide-brimmed white straw with green ribbons.

I am crouched on the floor of her living room.
In my hands,
like a jewel,
I cradle a piece of her brain
the color of cantaloupe.

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