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.