seventh son ~ curse of

if I hadn’t had that wretched abortion
it would’ve been the seventh son of a seventh son
says our ninety year old mum

a child with magical powers
thank you for the flowers
I’ll find a vase

my eldest sister Gill is round on a visit
she wants to say hang on a minute
but can’t think how to begin it

she knows it’s hocus pocus
a family cursed by a foetus
on a glowing umbilicus
tearing open His eyes to see us

our problems were more mundane than that
too many kids in a too small flat
parents playing tit-for-tat

she watches mum arranging the roses
waits for the next thing she discloses
something equally magical she supposes

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