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 the man behind the hand that hides
Half of the Hunchback’s face, the mouth that cries,
“S-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. This was
The only gesture you could make: 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.
—
Eric Norris lives in Portlandia, USA. His poems and reviews have appeared in The Peacock Journal, Classical Outlook, E-Verse Radio, Singapore Poetry, Soft Blow, Assaracus, Glitterwolf, New Walk Magazine, The Good Men Project, and American Arts Quarterly.
