And after my father straps a blade
to its claw, and mumbles what I assume
is the end of a prayer, I wonder
what part of this is real, what sliver of truth
pits him against a figure so eager
to thrust his rooster forward, to let gravity
guide it to the ground, and to watch—
as my father steps back, becomes spectator
and coach—the chaos that ensues,
the ki-ki-ri-kís, the stabs, the wounds,
the blood that anoints the blood
already spilled, the way the fighters’ necks
droop, until one—fatigued from the blows—
takes a hit and falls headfirst, becoming
a mass of mangled meat and feathers
my father casts his shadow on, nudges
the way I nudge his body on weekend
afternoons, convinced my touch—
calm and sober—will be enough
to make him rise once again.