David Rivard

October 12, 2011 Rivard David



The radiance that is always around us is incited
when we win, & even the rain is exciting

on a Monday morning in June, especially
if last night’s mist is recalled

for how it spit in the face of Yankee righthander
Joba Chamberlain, jinxing

his delivery—I don’t
mean it dropped a hairball on this guy

or anything…but, hey,
why not? And now? Now an inroad is about to be made,

over by the factory where a roll of Necco Wafers got a redo
as a double-helix—

an ultimatum is about to be issued, near the gyrating exhausts
of the Novartis vaccines lab—& lightning

will return then, short-sighted & cross after having
been abducted for months, its blood sugars

burning down the creator’s forests & scattering
the girls’ lacrosse squad at MIT. The lightning gets cranky

little by little, all of us do by late morning, then tired,
and lightning is not by any means reasonable

to begin with, not calm—
everything gets blown up by its point of view—

an ultimatum will be delivered then—
and all at once we’ll agree to be lucky, splendid, & damp.

David Rivard is the author of seven books of poetry, the newest of which, Some of You Will Know, is out from Arrowsmith Press in October 2022.  His earlier books have won the PEN/New England Prize in poetry, the James Laughlin Prize from the Academy of American Poets, and the Agnes Lynch Starrett Poetry Prize, and he has been a finalist for the Los Angeles Times Book Prize. Among his other honors are fellowships from the Guggenheim Foundation, the National Endowment for the Arts, and the Civitella Ranieri Foundation. He lives on the coast of Maine.