In any order,
she will pluck bones
from sea trout, cover it in lemon juice
a few slices of red onion, wrap in tin foil, bake
- done.
To be an honourary catholic
guilt is carried as a scapular depicted saint
around her neck, and she lashes her back
fifty times or so:
be good
be nice
don't swear or talk dirty
- done.
She never liked the Priest at St Christopher's.
He always smelled of rotten cheese
bad socks
communion wine.
Eyeing the Protestant girls -
must have wondered what colour their gleaming panties were.
We didn't feel
the need
to confess but
urge-to-flirt
- done.
Coffee spurts hot steam
the kitchen window smears a shadow,
outside the cats are mewling
bloody noisy things, she is reminded
that Friday's carry genuflecting angels
like the skin
of the fish and the scales
that measure the minute details
of feathers
flustered thoughts
and how to lie
till next Friday
or what happens Saturday?
- to do.
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