Two Poems by Tara Willoughby
/La Niña
We brought the girls to the reserve to see how
full the river is. You can hear the ancient beast roar before you see it.
The bottom of the path is gone
underneath the swirling tea-coloured water.
There is no sandy strand of beach here now. And yet,
even where we stand clumped together and aimless
on a trail to nowhere, I can see where the water pressed its flanks
even higher. It swept across the grass and bushes and weeds
laying them down flat and parallel like a seagrass mat.
The kids look out at the clumps of trees
stranded and surrounded by the torrent, bending with the current.
They know this is big, it's wild, but the significance slips
through their fingers like eels.
What is a river to a girl? They haven't yet learned
to hold its course in their minds.
From the tears that fell unceasing in the hills and
hidden valleys, to the sodden ground
that can't hold a single drop more, to this
thundering enormity before us that rolls cold and
deep and full of lost branches into an endless sea.
It's too much for them to think all at once.
They get bored with the disjointed pieces. They clamber
across the matted plants and slick clay, looking for flowers and
interesting rocks shaped like noses.
When a snake shims from between some boulders,
the visit is done. We'll come back to the scoured gullies another day.
The water will rise and fall. Next time
a girl might be able to hold just a little more of it in her mind,
wade so that she can feel it around her ankles, without falling.
Without being swept away.
Making Waves
across the water
gently rolling
her reflection slides
an oil slick of long limbs and
seal skin wavering splits and reforms
on the glossy green surface of the vast Pacific
the surfer sits behind the beach break
for a time she’s watching waiting
breathing salt and algae
moments
pass
so slowly
everything is in its proper
place the fish the woman the kelp
moving together under an enamel blue sky
on shore she may feel shaky, may be seen
as less, as small. but her reflection
grins briny the water churns
she paddles strong
waves swell
sweet
she glides
behind the distant cry
of the seagulls on the wind
Author’s Note: I started writing La Niña thinking about a particularly adventurous picnic I once took a group of Girl Guides on, and their reactions when we came across the overflowing Murrumbidgee River. Making Waves was first inspired by a news article I read about champion surfer Lucy Small, and her efforts to promote gender equality in the sport.
Tara lives in Canberra with her spouse and their cockatiel, Pooface. She has too many houseplants and years of education, and not nearly enough books. Her work has previously appeared in Cordite Poetry Review, Cicerone Journal, The Bookends Review, Melbourne Culture Corner, and others. You can find links to more of her work here.
