Douglas Wright


everywhere I go
people show me photos of their children
of themselves as black and white children
of their great–grandparents as sepia children
and when they ask me if I have any photographs
of my childhood
I want to give them
the smell of sun on a concrete path
a fairy bite from the jaws of a towering snapdragon
the movement of my mother's hips
as she attempted to perform that brand new dance
the twist
and the sound of the bell ringing
to call us in from standing on our hands

but instead I haul out my old photographs
and start with the one of me
as a baby –
the prophetic one in which the crux
of the action
is carefully hidden;
I am sitting up
on a pouf
a pert blonde 5 month old bombshell
and crouching unseen behind me
the veil of her shadow
tucked in,
is my mother
holding me up

Author’s Note


Previous section.

Next section.