There is no star I can
identify
with anymore, except
you: Captain Bligh,
Rembrandt, Henry,
Hunchback, married to
the bride of
Frankenstein. I look at you,
I see myself behind the
hand that hides
half of the Hunchback’s
face, the mouth that cries,
“So beautiful!” to
Esmeralda,
embarrassed by its
ugliness. A stellar
performance, that
eclipse. The shadows your
fat fingers cast across
the screen endure
like unreciprocated
love. It was
a gesture of pure
poetry because
you poured your soul
into Quasimodo’s
one good, glistening
eye. I suppose,
a soul was all you felt
you had to give
the world, so that great
gargoyle could live.
