Summer Playtime

a savage hook had been screwed in the tree
     that each year gave us abundant chestnuts
          not succulent ones these named for horses
we gathered gleefully their globes of points
     making them look like tiny wartime mines
          to help us wage internecine warfare
cousin against cousin and siblings too
     not the classic chestnuts of ancient fame
          that used to come from the gray skeletons
before they succumbed to deadening blight
     still standing there at the head of the field
          sadly compelling us think what they were
grandest monarchs of our native forests
     and if grandparents forgot to tell us
          of older days when these giants prospered
their huge stark gauntness was sure to remind
     even us youths and children at playtime
          downhill here beside the graybeard farmhouse
growing older when Paul Revere was young
     riding his midnight horse not far away
          from where we romped beneath this chestnut tree
smaller than ancient kinsmen up the hill
     but still so big and strong we all admired
          playing beneath it where hammocks had hung
between long gone post and hook in the tree
     still nestling carelessly never removed
          rusting dark unnoticed in trunk’s gnarled bark

          it seems innocent enough
          running fast as possible
          jumping toward and up the tree
          momentum helping scramble
          walking up the trunk of it
          reaching for the lowest branch
          that defies your wildest leap
          leaving you clutching the bark
          while falling clinging hugging
          sliding wounding scraping hands
          brothers and cousins daring
          each one waiting for his turn

some things burning deep into memory
     those sights you’re never learning to forget
          as my oldest and much loved brother Gil
makes sign of the cross before this attempt
     now sliding down tree playtime ends in screams
          as inadvertently grabbing the hook
ripping flesh of palm away from his bones
     revealing as in Gray’s anatomy
          for a moment standing in white relief
his naked phalanges breathing the air
     imprinting themselves on my retina
          till covered in a torrent of crimson
I can’t hear his screams I still see his face
     blood gushing living fountains from his hand
          and his other hand grabbing on his wrist
searching for pressure points to stop the flow
     but sound not disappearing completely
          three words surviving these seventy years—
heaven-bound prayer—Jesus! Mary! Joseph!