We had twin beds—
Julie and I—
pink and white gingham spreads
separated by a window
that overlooked the clothesline.
We had two hassocks
—one pink, one green—
a nightstand between our beds,
a crochet doll that fit over the tissue box.
On the wall, a framed poster of ballet slippers.
A thin, swirly carpet
and spiral staircase
that circled down to our older
sister Janine’s bedroom.
Our bedroom nestled in between
the oldest and the youngest
like our place in the family,
though Julie six years older than me.
One night, I was not yet nine,
Papa appeared at our window
trying to get back in the house
after our mother had locked him out again.
Nellie was just a baby
and Janine, sixteen, had seen too much.
Julie was sleeping soundly
even though I called her name
though maybe not loud enough,
afraid she wouldn’t be able
to send him away. I didn’t want to either,
but I knew our mother was right.
I pretended not to hear our father
as he fought to fit his calloused hand
through the metal gates
he’d installed just a few weeks earlier,
because a burglar had made his way inside.
He knocked on the window, called
Belle figlie, belle figlie,
Beautiful daughters,
beautiful daughters.
I sat up stiff against my headboard
so he wouldn’t see me,
looked sideways at Julie’s bed
called her name again but nothing.
I let our father walk away
knowing he had nowhere to go,
heard the crunch of leaves beneath his feet,
the small clatter of clothespins in the wind.
Bio:
Maria Giura is the author of Celibate: A Memoir, which won a 1st place Independent Press Award, and What My Father Taught Me; her third book is forthcoming from Bordighera Press. An Academy of American Poets winner, Giura has been published in New York Quarterly, Prime Number, I-70, Liguorian, Presence, Midstory, Italian Americana and Voices in Italian Americana. She received her PhD from Binghamton University and teaches writing workshops for Casa Belvedere Cultural Foundation. www.mariagiura.com
OVUNQUE SIAMO 