Fold the bed-sheet,
cross your fingers--
this lie you are
looks set to linger,
like a rumour
or the smell
of last night’s dinner--
Wash the dishes,
cross your fingers,
hope the story
won’t be questioned--
hope some more
when someone listens
(while you scrub
so your skin glistens,
whistling)
Difficult
to keep hidden,
bad blood leaks
around what’s given--
the bastard caste-
mark on your forehead
is déclassé
and whorish red
So cross your fingers,
clap and count--
till superstition
finds you out
Fiona Sampson