It is autumn; one can see

the browning grass by the sidewalk

where my father stands to hold me.

Behind him, the Ford catches

his shadow and my mother’s.

Her shadow stoops

as she centers and steadies.

She has done well, perhaps

by accident. The horizon line

observes the rule of thirds,

the bright grey that means

the blue of evening glows

and outlines us. The winged

and circled star shows clear

against his uniform. His shoes,

his Sam Browne belt, the leather

visor of his cap all shine

with recent polishing.

Only I am indistinct. White skin,

white suit, white knitted cap,

I blend into the grey

as if there were no line

dividing child and sky.

My father looks more quizzical

than proud, holds me

carefully, as if i might

be valuable, or bite.

All our shadows, driven

by the dropping Kansas sun,

point eastward toward the war.

At first it seems a photograph

of rocks: sheer wall above,

mere rubble-heap below.

Examined carefully, it shows

two figures on a ledge over

the scarp of fallen stone.

A magnifying glass would find

our dotted smiles, the patterns

of our shirts. We would be waving.

That morning I had vomited

on Jay’s new seats, sick

with the winding climb

and tourist-café food.

That evening I would step

near the rattlesnake, wonder

why my mother screamed.

But now we wave and smile,

climbers over loosened stone,

unfrightened by the downward press

of cliff that would be valley.

We sit in a stiff line, posing:

my father; me; my mother.

Yet all our artifice cannot disguise

contentment. We are at ease

on Thelma’s porch in spring.

My mother’s hand rests

on my wrist, my shoulder

touches Dad’s, my forearm

seems as large as his.

Behind us, plates that Grandma Earle

carried out from Illinois in ’86

repeat our symmetry.

Unseen, the Texas sun

is pouring down, the hot, flat

wind has just begun to blow.

We smile and do not notice.

Craig Goad

Hurrying Into the Night. 1987. Woodley Press, Topeka, KS.

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