Andrea Dulanto

My Mother in the 70s

Dressed to the Las Vegas nines,

Nancy Sinatra blond bouffant hair,

floor-length gown,

rhinestones & sequins.

Me, 2 ½ years old,

pageboy haircut,

red plaid bodice,

navy blue dress, black stockings,

no shoes.

We sit on the stairs,

the bright orange carpet.

I throw my smallness

around her shoulders.

I haven’t learned how to keep my love quiet.

She looks at the camera

as if someone is painting her portrait.

I want her to hold me

the way I hold her.

But my mother, the movie star,

even with her arms around me

keeps her distance.

Haunted Houses

Six years old, you have questions

when you grow up, do you lose your childhood

I am the aunt you never see

the tía you don’t know

this creature called Andrea

October 2007

at the Halloween carnival

Florida, our Florida

of mud and rain

you are a scary Viking

your brother is Darth Vader

I am Scully again
with brown hair

your parents smoke cigarettes
they don’t wear costumes

the first ride is only for you

your brother isn’t old enough

you’re nervous but as your swing rushes by

your mother high-fives you over the barricade

Should you be doing that?

your father says to her

you laugh

bold as any Viking

later they ask if you’re ready for the haunted house

you say yes

so your brother says yes

but holds your mother’s hand

black curtains, spray-painted plywood in a parking garage

realm of ghosts, monsters, hands reaching from a cage

we take the first exit

both of you crying

your mother comforts your brother
as your father kneels next to you, puts his arm around your shoulders and says

I’m proud of you for being brave

you kiss his cheek

I would have told you the fable of there are no haunted houses.

My father had died that June, and Ma died a few years before.

No one speaks of grief

no one speaks of the abuse

or how to reconcile this with how they also took care of us

We are versed in fables

No one speaks of grief

But I dream of the house of my childhood

I am with your father, my brother

we are children

the entire house is flying in the air like The Wizard of Oz

but the other rooms are gone

only one room left 

that’s where we are

together

as we fly through the air

no walls around us

then I’m left alone

This is how I speak of grief

in dreams, in fables, in silences.

You’re not a child anymore.

I am the aunt you never see

the tía you don’t know

I am learning to speak to grief

not all of our houses have our histories

not all of our houses are haunted

do you lose your childhood

some houses 

belong only to us

we are the first people to live in them