The History of My Nightmares, 1964-Present

1. Apartment in 111 Belmont

Seven out of nine rooms once used
as bedrooms—one for Mom, for Pop,
the oldest boy, the oldest girl,
and three where kids were doubled up.
Now all but three were empty. Tom claimed
the one with locks. Pop, who stayed
at his girlfriend’s place most weekends,
kept the small room off the kitchen.
One hall, two rooms away from his:
Mom’s bed. I, age ten, slept next to her,
as I’d done since outgrowing my crib.
But there were no more afternoons I cried
when Pop and Mom went in her room and pushed
the dresser against the door to keep me out.

2. What we did on weekend nights when Pop wasn’t home

We didn’t own a TV
or radio. We didn’t join
the neighbors on the stoop
but three floors up I heard
Mrs. Bybel’s gruff voice
telling jokes that made
adults laugh but Mom frown.
I wanted to laugh too.
We said rosaries; the beads clicked
through Mom’s fingers.
Prayers blurred to non-words.
I knelt on the room’s east side, she on its west.
Tom stayed behind his closed door. I hoped
my sisters or Joe would show for Sunday dinner.

3. The nightly ritual

Mom got up from her rocking chair,
said time for Tweety-bird and me
to go to bed then left the room.
If others were there I lagged a minute
pretending not to care but that meant
I’d have to hurry when halfway down
the hall and out of their sight.
She undressed to her slip. I climbed
in first—my place between wall
and her. She shut the door, turned out
the light, lay down a body-space away.
I inched over and snuggled into her side.
She raised her arm and I pressed my face
into breast. No words ever spoken.

4. My collection of nightmares from those years

Rats chewed my toes. Disembodied hands
came up from under the bed and pawed
my stomach. A man on the landing
slipped his hand in the broken panel
and opened the lock. My sister screamed
and screamed. I found dead kittens
in the back of the closet, moldy loaves
in the punched wall, and blood on my pajamas.
The nightmare I’d have for the next 30 years
began: I wake, can’t breathe,
something evil at the foot of my bed,
must get away, but paralyzed.
My fingers pull me across the floor,
those deadly hands seconds behind my neck.

5. Night lights

I couldn’t fall asleep—
even in my own bedroom in my own
house—unless there was a light, a bright
light, on in the room.
When staying at hotels or someone’s
home, I turned on every light and checked
every corner, at least twice,
before laying down.
And never let myself deep-sleep—
had to stay prepared in case something
happened. What if a killer broke in
and I wasn’t awake enough to know?
It’s different now: 111 Belmont torn down,
Mom dead, and I sleep soundly next to John.