by Walt McDonald

by Walt McDonald
     Shiny as wax， the cracked veneer Scotch-taped
     and brittle. I can't bring my father back.
     Legs crossed， he sits there brash
     with a private's stripe， a world away
     from the war they would ship him to
     within days. Cannons flank his face
     and banners above him like the flag
     my mother kept on the mantel， folded tight，
     white stars sharp-pointed on a field of blue.
     I remember his fists， the iron he pounded，
     five-pound hammer ringing steel，
     the frame he made for a sled that winter
     before the war. I remember the rope in his fist
     around my chest， his other fist
     shoving the snow， and downhill we dived，
     his boots by my boots on the tongue，
     pines whishing by， ice in my eyes， blinking
     and squealing. I remember the troop train，
     steam billowing like a smoke screen.
     I remember wrecking the sled weeks later
     and pounding to beat the iron flat，
     but it stayed there bent
     and stacked in the barn by the anvil，
     and I can't bring him back.