White Sheets

My mother leaves a rosary

on the bush outside our house to stop

the rain, that constant patter

on the dusty sidewalk

reminiscent of sizzling

vegetables on the stove.

In the summer black

birds roost in the trees

like little monks, the sound of wind

chimes telling time.

White sheets on my bed,

pressed and washed clean

a thousand times, stretched

between corners and pulled

taut as the clothesline

she hangs them from in June.

My father scatters loaves of bread

across the backyard for the rabbits,

and one day my brother

shot one with an air rifle.

My father cut its screaming off by wrenching

its hind legs, resting a boot on its head

like a blessing, as if to say

hush now.