Bloodshot Summer

My father holds the chicken's neck
as my brother swings the axe for the first time.
Blood splatters the cement
where our chalk art was once showcased
to the rolling clouds—
but this won’t wash away in the rain.

The old man’s face hangs low
like a sun-bleached towel on the clothes line
with too many holes to absorb
the reality of blood
or sway in any sort of breeze.
This tiny smile of pride
only deepens his wrinkles.

The bruised fist
that once choked my mother
loosens from the creature's head
as he tosses it towards the trash can
only to miss his shot
in the final seconds
of sunlight.

But my brother runs to pick it up
and finishes the play
just before the cicadas sound.