For Richard

Eleven, eight and four years old, and you the youngest, still untouched – still unmarked by the sign of the cross. We tell you this while we’re alone

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in the house (you open to Hell, without our parents’ protection). Afraid of where you’ll go when you die,

we elect to bless you ourselves;

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crowd around the washing-up bowl, pray on the face of its water, feel ourselves transubstantiated. We transform into celebrants,

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your sister and I: a priestess and a priest saying ‘God’ a lot. Fingers wetted, brushed above your brow, we paint the key to Paradise.