Tsunami
by Bronwyn Lovell
Grief comes in waves.
I didn’t see you coming.
I’d kept guard for three years
then packed away the sandbags.
My desert island,
so far from the epicenter of you,
I didn’t think you’d ever
shake me again.
Your shifting
should have gone unnoticed,
your movements
unannounced,
never again to ripple
my safe harbour.
But the news crashed
through me
like a tsunami,
tore up my shallow roots,
shredded the new growth,
left me like driftwood.
Grief comes in waves,
hits without warning.
You can’t fight the ocean,
only try not to drown.
So I will lie here
till my sodden splinters dry
and the sand beneath me is solid.
Even now, I can feel the tsunami receding,
trickling back
to the rocks tears puddle under,
to hide in the hollows of me,
seeping away in streams
to wherever grief goes,
to be still,
lap quietly,
and wait.
Bronwyn Lovell is a poet and spoken word performer in Melbourne, Australia, where her poetry has been featured at several events, arts and writing festivals, as well as on local television and radio. She has a writing residency at Kinfolk Cafe, and she is a workshop facilitator for the Centre for Poetics and Justice.