Moles

I used to look in the mirror
and think that all the birth marks I had
would one day save my life.
If I was kidnapped and ransomed to my parents
and the British government for millions of pounds.
The kidnappers would put me along with 16 other
body doubles in an identity parade.
To raise the stakes a bit they would strap me with explosives
in case I dared give myself away .

I would stand with 16 other people who looked
like me, in varying degrees, as my frantic, weeping
parents searched hopelessly for me amongst the 32 other
brown eyes looking back at them from the line.
They would check for all my moles and birth marks:
strawberry mark on right ribs, mole just above, mole on nose,
and one by one the prospective others would fall away
disappointed and exposed
The wrong one.

Keep checking: neck (genetic, maternal),
forearm, right ear, left shin, thumbs:
Once, below right nail, now disappearing palm side of left,
right shoulder blade, and at one time
my blue patch, that ghostily bloomed
on my back and stayed there for some years
like a strange blue puddle or chill.

The mole by my belly button,
the one to the right of my groin,
the emerging ones on each thigh, like eyes
that look up at you. They are getting closer to me.
It’s going to be my turn soon but I can’t say
anything because I will explode, but I’ll be discovered,
and the bombs would be defused, and we’ll leave together.
They’re examining another girl at the moment, checking her
Neck, arms and back, she’s ok a pretty good effort,

Not like the fat guy next to me. But I’m waiting for my turn.
Come on hurry up - It’s her! They say and I watch uncomprehending
my mother’s sorrow transform into joy as she throws
her arms around This other. They congratulate each other in slow
motion. They leave, laughing and joyful, Wait!
I twitch but feel the explosives tight around my ribs,
Now the ransom will go up, they will be broken hearted again
When they go home and realise, she’s a dummy.
Cuckoo, cuckoo tarantatatata.