The Week Sam Hamill Died

JUST OFF I-70 WEST

Way back, back by steps,

stepping off 40, away again

from the national road

the Pike and national way

past Cumberland towards

the American trail

and Nemacolin's path,

rivers and watersheds connect.

Sam Hamill is dead. Gone six days.

Take the Buffalo Church Road.

Language telling me hard coal is smokeless.

Bring me a couple of Indian ponies.

Dreams here surface on their own.

People buried on this hill

all live so close to one another.

Peonies surface after long winter between stones.

Two brothers pack a bale of top soil

and plants for their parent's grave.

This is Clayville. Henry Clay

spent a night here, they say.

William McGuffey's ours.

School district's named for him

on account of the McGuffey Reader.

An agreement's been reached and

a third party is present. We'll assemble

together. A woman sitting in shade

watching her husband mow stops me

and I ask my question. The man says,

You can see it from here,

but getting there's another story.

There is a better road, he tries again.

I don't want to get there too soon.

No, he says, Too much daylight.

The past as present is a reckoning.

May all your fences have gates.

Sam's been gone all of six days.

I don't think he's ever going to leave us,

me and this little stack of books

in the window sill, this side

of the dinosaur looking down on the people.

Jim Bodeen

20 April 2019