Saul Bennett wrote the poem at right as a coda to New
Fields and Other Stones. It speaks for itself.
In the shack we share
in the woods near the house
my daughter and I convene.
She died four years ago,
almost, suddenly, 24, leaving us,
younger brother, sister. Our children came
less than two years apart.
We moved, my wife and I,
last year, left the density.
The children are in the city.
I do a little consulting
from the house and make
poems in the shack behind.
A good number of the poems are about her,
us, sometimes the five of us.
God doesnt tap my shoulder.
The place has nothing in it,
nothing: stone floor,
eaten away foot
wide plank ledgemy desk. I stand.
Moving newspaper soft black copy pencils
without erasers from my old days
I compose, revise in fine point fountain pen
bury, reluctantly, overripe
out the unwashed shallow window
that wont open. Around,
the box musnt be much
more than six feet. There
we converse in her element. There I feel nothing
comes between us.
© 1998 Saul Bennett