Rae Gouirand
Harriet Kelly had other plans
for her middle son (Gene) –
namely, the law. What else
for a boy who dared to ride
a tricycle missing handlebars
down Mellon Street, come home
with an iron beam’s swipe
under his cheek, fresh crescent
letting blood? What would she
have said at his shoots, his refusal
to airbrush the ridge left by
stitches, studio producers
worrying over their posters?
And he, turning that fine stroke
to the camera, what did he hope
we’d see? The mark of the sensitive
person, the Pittsburgh kid,
the mere physical result? I’ve
seen the films, his entrances into
rooms where tabletops gleam
for his tapped dash, stamps
streaking their length, swift checks
of time steps in a long address.
Shoes impressing their effects,
he’s always there in the center,
arms extended to everyone
in the room, grin imprinted,
digging his heels under the lights.