Bruce Bennett

Young Woman In A Pink Skirt

—Corot

My goodness, she looks sad, if not distraught.
But why? Who knows? There isn’t any clue—
not that the viewer sees—although if you
look close, then closer, you will see there, caught
behind, diffuse, a melancholy tree,
and farther back, that landscape spreading back
and back into a sunset edged with pink
(admittedly, that you can barely see)
matching her skirt. But, seeing that, you think,
What does that tell me? since you clearly lack
what you would need to know to get inside
that pose, her head, the reason for her stare.
What was it—is it?—that she has to hide,
if anything? For you, she’s simply there.

Elegy for a Bat

If I had caught it, it would not have died.
It circled as I waited with my net,
waited and waited. Though I tried and tried,
I could not gauge its flight path, could not get
a handle on its pattern! On it flew
and flew and did not settle. Then it found
that open window to our porch, went through
into our house. From then on, we were bound
to stay awake. We’d had these bouts before.
Closed all our doors, and finally went to sleep.
Its presence was not one we could ignore,
but we could live with it till morning. Keep
our cool, and wait till it emerged at night

again, when we’d be ready for its flight.

That never happened. In a window frame
asleep, my wife caught sight of it and shut
the window hard, thinking to trap it, but
killed it instead. I had been out, so came
into that scene. We both were sorry, sad,
felt guilty, but, with nothing else to do,
I took it out and buried it, a bad
ending to a good story. It was true,
I would, and could, have saved it. It was trapped,

did nothing wrong. I wanted it to live.

It wasn’t its fault that I proved inept,

a klutz who lacked the aptitude to give
a creature back its life. I mourned its loss,
thinking, if only I had played lacrosse!