E. Laura Golberg
My Father's Portrait
looks down from our living room
wall. Dwarfing the small space,
the picture's been evicted
from its natural habitat, the hallway
of the Institute where he presided.
I get a shock each time I descend
the stairs and see my father,
before asbestos took its revenge,
staring beyond me into middle
distance where, no doubt, lie
the formulae for Vitamin C
and diethylstilboestrol.
I'm torn between wanting him to stay,
secure in his two dimensional
jail and my longing for him to step
out, reaching, first, one searching
foot, then another, onto the glass
topped table beneath him.
What would I say to him, standing
high in his old-fashioned suit?
Remind him of our visit to Freddie,
the horse? Ask him if he’d walk
more slowly in the future so I’d keep
up, and talk to him? Would he still
complain about Dr. Smythe, or
at last tell me of the French nuns
who taught him so diligently?
Would he say why he chose
to study every night, rather than
read poetry to me only once?
Portrait by C.L. MacNelly
