Still Life

My father is sitting on a duck
In the middle of a field
On our kitchen table.
A still life in fading black and white
Curling at the edges
The Kodak print holds a past
That belongs partly to me.
My father is no longer
Just a soldier’s face on the mantle
Or a brass plaque in the attic.
Now I am the daughter of a little boy
Who sits on the back of a duck
And squints into afternoon sunlight.
He knew me only as a photograph
Enclosed in an air mail envelope.
I know him only as a photograph
Curling on the formica table
And gazing endlessly from the mantle
Behind a sheet of glass
Which my mother won’t dust.

–Gretchen Hill