in every picture

1.

my jester brother dances.
ogles. face precision twisting.

reassembling in time with the camera’s
shutter opening closing.

shirt & trousers garishly 70’s
fashion fabulous striped or

polka dotted. how our parents
never caught on

until after the film
came back to their furious

grim set lips squeezing out
how could you? commenting

tightly you look slim, chris
but you’re squinting again -

as frozen serene me
dutifully tries

to smile into the sun
with open eyes.

my properly coy
smile neatly in place.

the only outrageous
or absurd things about me

are the itchy outfits from Paris
that my hair and I were

pressed into each morning.


2.

there is only picture of Brian

standing upright, poised

and representative of the Race.


at the Tower Of London,

he had the nerve to snicker

at the Beefeater uniforms.


Daddy’s face snapped serious

inches from my brother’s.

quietly said,


these are stone cold seasoned warriors
trained to take their bare hands
and turn you into 25 tidy pieces
in under 50 seconds neatly arranged
in formation on this lush green grass.


in that picture, Brian smiles

appropriately. but, his eyes slide

curiously up and


to the left. a Yeoman Warder’s

practised jovial smile beams down at him,

hand resting lightly on his shoulder.


my hip is cocked to one side

hand on my waist

smile smug and not squinting.


this is the one in a silver frame.