Her Father’s Heart as Brownie Starlet
 
My mother’s dad is in the clouds. No, he’s in the sea.
JFK is on a plane. No, he’s on tv. He was in the Navy,
once. This is the base in San Diego. It is July, 1960.
 
She is fifteen. JFK is on tv. This is the base.
Her shirt is white cotton. A salt wind lifts
the shining darkness of her hair. She sights into noon
 
like a pilot. Her father’s as not here as clouds
blown inland from sea to desert air. He crashed.
He was captured. No, drowned. This is his drowned heart
 
heavy in her hand. No, it’s her Kodak Brownie Starlet.
She holds and turns it toward her looking past its lens.
The photo will be black and white and square
 
and far away as JFK. She will send it to herself, where she is,
with him underneath the waves. Her mother is gone, too. No,
she’s pinning her hair to attend the service for a body
 
that’s not there. The Civil Air Patrol is looking
for her. No, it’s looking for him. Where
is her house? Her bed? Her little brother? She is his mother
 
now. No, she needs a mother, so lets the Dakon lens
look after her. In the photo JFK will be there
with his arm around her shoulder. No. Only bare sky
 
and bleached wood siding. Her dark eyes
narrowed against sun and the Brownie Starlet, looking.
In six months, she will have a new father. No,
 
she will have a new president, handsome like her father.
In sixty years, she will be sifting the sky for contrails.
“Hello, Daddy,” she will say. Or sometimes, “Hello, Mama.”
 
She was captured. No, she drowned. No, she’s breathing
salt air thick with ocean. She is here. At the base. JFK is on tv.
My mother’s dad is in the clouds. No, he is in the sea.