My Father on His Shield

　　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.