The first time I see my sister 

in nine years, is in the teeth

of a haunted house.  

Her empty, black eyes make me

think she’s a hired ghoul.

Of course she pushes me

in front of her, shrinks

behind me when the clowns cackle––

same whimper she used to make 

at Tim Curry’s Pennywise,

so I stop to admire the set design,

do some of my own cackling.

In our house, we mocked each other 

when we could see fear 

purring underneath each other’s bed.

She shoves me forward, 

past the skeletons in hazmat suits, 

steps on my ankles, leaving pools of red welts.

A masked man blocks the door.

I’m sorry Mom and Dad disowned you. 

Sorry I never told them

they were wrong. She’s not sorry 

for anything.

Screeches old wounds

until the man steps aside––

everyone steps aside for her.

My chest bleeds like the walls; 

More words heard by the girl screaming,

Get out, than by my sister. That old fear

of talking but no one can hear me: 

The day after I showed her 

a rug burn from her dragging me

across the living room,

and she shrugged.  

When I told her of my assault 

all she said was, You have no discretion.

When the chainsaws come, I’m grateful.

Her side of the story always drowning

me out better than any weapon.

She leaves this haunted house, again,

without a glance behind her. Speeds down 

the neighborhood street like a highway.

But don’t you know there is no haunted house?

Only the debris left from my childhood,

and she’s the ghost.