ODE Poem: To Lois Tonkin, by Anna Correa

In my bag I carry
Annotated Four Quartets,
Do not write or read a single thing

Nor think of you when my
Legs rush in-between cars
Water gets inside of my shoes and
In the brim of my long skirt

This is not a walkable city after all;
I used to think,
Trauma defined me

But sitting at this swing-bench
Looking at the sun-bathed deck
People playing on the water
Laughing, splashing at each other
I am no longer linked to you

Trauma may not efface
Just like grief
But I will grow
Around it

An olive tree
Spreading its roots
Around the stones
Making their way
Into the warm soil;
Whatever we call home
Will reach me