ANNA MARK

Fortuna's Tender

At the Palazzina in Sans Souci,
on someone else's card, on someone else's points,

the stars align in my favour, my fortune
hitched on someone else's fortune (and misfortune);

a woman dressed in uniform, all in white,
sings, Que sera sera, as she removes

the cellophane from the bountiful breakfast buffet.
Perhaps, she's Fortuna in ample flesh

preparing her cornucopia, singing over me
in sovereignty, Whatever will be, will be;

or she's soothing herself, her lot, fated to serve
the guests at Sans Souci, The future's not ours to see;

or— Que sera sera, she's singing her blessings
instead of counting them.

I approach her plentitude as one would an altar,
giving, consuming, not counting the cost.