He's the handsome one, toffed-up for a movie premiere

in his double-breasted. Victor Mature is not in the make-specs,

can't boast a waist that slim. Today we're talking Cary Grant,

talking suavity. She's linking his left arm, shielding her waist

behind a grand cascade of flowers tumbling frozenly. His right

hand hugs a supple pair of gloves across the brim

of a well-brushed trilby. He is doing things the proper way,

has seen films of guys looking night-club-slick, skidding round

Chicago streets on machine-gun sprees, still managing to look

snazzy, flipping coins, chewing stogies, tippling with aplomb.

I'm still a few ticks of the clock away. They appear happy,

as they are meant to be; are not here to be judged by anything

comes afterwards. The way the light falls doesn't flatter her,

accentuates the Harris features – her mother's family's gift to us.

She's trying on a smile – tentative as always, wanting to be genuine.

My father liked this photograph, had it framed ashore in Rio,

with butterflies’ wings of phosphorescent blue and gold.

I keep it to convince myself, despite the odds,

that origins occur in love.