Cary Grant was so perfect but his hands
look like someone else's as they embrace
the woman, the saint.
Maybe they were Leach's hands,
so out of place,
trying to be anywhere and never
belonging where he wanted to be.
There was the man he was born
and the man he was born to play.
Caterpillar and butterfly,
the one awkward and hungry
and the other too perfect to touch.
You wanted to put it behind you,
your own caterpillar days.
Emerging into a world you invented,
a world you control,
a world that will finally love your
iridescent scales and beauty.
You are the person you created,
the person you knew they wanted.
I'll tell you: I'm likely the only one left
who knows you're the same person.
And sometimes I'm tired of knowing it.
Sooner or later you will be tired, too.
Pretending you were never a caterpillar is hard.
He said they married Cary Grant and
they went home with Archibald Leach.
I am sure it is nice
to be loved for who you want to be.
But oh Archie, I miss you.
Put your hands where they want to go.
We can do this in one take.