A Brief History of
My Cinema
Sandy DeLuca
To be honest,
I miss old gilded theaters,
when ushers in red jackets
crept down aisles.
White faces…bony fingers.
They didn’t exist in the light.
Frankenstein, Dracula…
jump scares in the dark.
The city at twilight.
holding my father’s hand
when we walked under the
marquee.
Sailors crowded on the walk…
vampires atop gothic roofs.
Nostalgia for Norman Bates.
I went to his motel…
to a village of the dammed…
hunted with Van Helsing.
Years later, a theater on the
south side showed
Last House on the Left…
credits rolled as I ran home,
heart pounding,
fearing each car that passed…
every guy who looked my way.
Later, Leatherface swung
his chainsaw
Michael Myers dropped
by when autumn leaves fell.
Hellraiser, Pumpkinhead…
The Thing and The Evil Dead…
popcorn, pounding heart,
Friday night thrills.
I walked in darkness with
Lestat.
Worked the Graveyard Shift.
Years of monsters, ghosts…
slashers waiting in shadow…
knives shimmering.
Lovers, friends, and a husband…
maybe two,
clutched my hand, loved me,
held me when killers
did their deeds.
It’s just me now
in a pitch-black theater…
Friday matinee.
Gone are chandeliers,
Nouveau paintings on ceilings
and walls.
Assigned seats.
Not an usher in sight.
Vampires still
lurk in shadows,
brooding eyes, longish hair…
crimson on white mouths.
If only I were immortal!
This afternoon, Joker laughs…
psychosis evident despite
graceful steps.
Glides across the screen
in pouring rain.
I catch every tear…
taste the blood…
dance with my leading man…
in ripped jeans bought at
Goodwill.
Boot slippers more comfortable
than platform shoes.
Hair still wet from my morning
shower.
The madman kisses me
with paint-slashed lips.
I will love him…
until
The End…
