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Young Girl in Bed Papa coughs, letting me know he's near, and inspects the window latches one by one. The roof beam is peroba wood, I can sleep soundly. Mama tucks me in with a prayer and I'm off, chasing after men, trying not to be too greedy, letting good win out. If I touch myself, I unleash the throngs, shoals of little fish. Mama knows all about the topaz burning in me, that's why she says (a little enviously): Get to sleep, it's late. Yes, Mama, I'm on my way: I'll stroll around the plaza with no one to scold me. Bye-bye, I can take care of myself, I'll camp out in the back alleys, befriended by boys from the bars with guitars and eyes that won't leave me alone. When the city is snoring in mist the seminarians will be waiting for me in the sanctuary. Heaven is right here, Mama! It's a good thing I'm not a book steeped in the catechism of Christian doctrine, I can postpone my scruples and ride horseback through the apathy of the well-pruned chrysanthemums. Tomorrow I'll worry about the pretty wine stain wilted flowers make on the ground. Meanwhile, factories have their courtyards, walls have nooks and crannies to hide behind. They're nice to me in the barracks. No, no tea, Mother dear, it's Friar Crisostomo's hand I want, 36 anointing me with holy oil. I want passion from life. And slaves, please—I'm weary. With my love of crossness and theater, I want my folding cot, I want the holy angel of the Lord, my zealous guardian. But relax—he's a eunuch, Mama. 37 ...

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