Looking At The Photographs

of a small boy clothed in paisley harem pants
and rainbow suspenders, suspended
in sepia-toned time –

of a small boy hiding
in a wash basket, held inside it
an egg in it’s cup or a cat
in it’s cradle –

a baby photo with baby
cradled in mother’s arms, it’s feline tongue
testing new air, lapping it up. Milk –

there is the young boy in stilettos that are tall
black and too big, he stands, Bette Davis
with a boa of silk scarves around his neck
like unravelling VHS tape. Here
is the photo of the boy unravelling the VHS tape
he is entangled in the lacquered black
VHS tape, he chews it and touches his foot.

I look at the photographs –
I see my mum in one that is discoloured,
been felt time and time again
by grubby hands. She is flinging
paint at a wall, baby-blue, the boy
is knelt longingly beside her
making hand-prints, baby-blue, on the wallpaper,
on the weathered floor boards, on the white door
where we measured my height till I was seventeen.