Poems from Rivard Street
by Benjamin Oldham
This is to tell you
how I’ve waited here for you
outside the theatre.
Though many acts by now
have played inside,
I have not seen you arrive
in blizzards
nor missed the show of leaves
in the streetlight
of summer nights.
I have not seen you arrive
the first of June,
that windless June,
and the dancing leaves are silent.
I have been downtown
and to the outer city
past the mountain.
I have not cared what plays inside
the theatres there.
I have waited
with my collar turned
against the biting snow
and my chin raised to the trees—
that is how I have waited.
This is to tell myself
that you must be inside already,
watching every act,
passing every season unaware
of the cycles of the moon.
Because you have not arrived
to find me waiting
in blizzards
or watching the show of leaves,
nor have you arrived
the first of June,
that windless June,
and you have not seen with me
how silently the leaves are dancing.
You’ll have to wake up,
my love,
and comb away the curtains
like hair from your eyes.
On the rooftop of the chapel
that burned last year,
they are taking down the scaffolding
around the repairs,
and the bell rings out again
from its defended silence.
Up here, the city parts,
at every street it parts
and falls
like hair to the side of the face.
When it burns again,
let us not be on opposite ends;
you’ll have to look for me,
my love,
if I am not in bed beside you
in the sheets we made;
you’ll have to look for me
if I departed
in the blazing night
into a defended silence.