Father Giuliano, the drama instructor, fainted

every time he saw blood.

When a nun in the class, newly acquainted

with stagecraft,

fed a hand to the band saw, Giuliano was the one

who had to be treated. My mother

applauded the hero.
                                              At the first clap of thunder,

she ran to the bureau for the rosary.

All through a stormy upbringing

under the kitchen sink after dark,

I repeated my lines. No wonder I link priest and parent,

twins in a Siamese startlement: Blood and Thunder,

Thunder and Blood. Pray for us…

at the hour of death.
                                              The real drama begins with

a thud — my sister — not claustrophobic, not

acrophobic, plunging from bed,

riding the nightmare bedrails. Her elevator shaft

endangered us all, marked women,

dumb waiters adrift on a sunken Titanic. Days

I rode up and down, wherever the tenants were going

for fun, not pushing the panic button.
 
I was afraid of cats. 
                                              It's a circular story

and that's where I leave it: the Siamese leap

sucking breath, old wives'

tales, the alley cats my sister brought home

sheltered from storm,

early death of a hero and always

the drawn blood informing

our several lives.
From Blue Dusk: New and Collected Poems, 1951-2001, originally published in Magpie on the Gallows, 1981. Reprinted by gracious permission from Copper Canyon Press.



We're publishing poetry from Madeline DeFrees each Tuesday in December, to celebrate her life. Read more about this.