By Then

By then I was leaving,

and the deer in the meadow had stopped 

paying me their mind. I was alone

as I’d always been

but twice as deep for knowing it

now. Sometimes it’s OK

you have to wander a strange house

covered only by a blanket,

itchy wool rubbing against your naked ass

and shoulders—

the coarse gray fire station blanket

given me as a child. I didn’t know

whether this was one of those

times; I mean, 

I didn’t know if I was “OK.”

Shame thinks of us

in friendly terms—it sees how we are,

on the blink—it wants only

to do us the kindness

of anchoring us to the world it makes us

feel unworthy of.

I kept thinking a good cry

will take care of everything

wrong—getting 

day by day

skinnier but filled

somehow despite it all

to bursting.

Do me a favor,

I wanted to ask shame,

hold me, why don’t you?

Because at heart

it’s just that simple 

maybe. I wanted to be

held, that’s all. When I say

the word “world”

I mean love of course.

When I say “then”

I mean now. Always.

-- David Rivard

From SOME OF YOU WILL KNOW © 2022 David Rivard published by Arrowsmith Press.