Corunna

Poem

by Ksenija Spasic

this little side street in Stanmore
off Paramatta Road
up from Victoria Park
across my paper tongue
the names march on
stolid for you without the memories
But Corunna goes down
with roses on one side
and my hands,
picking the last of the honeysuckle
before the marauding roaches get to it
The street arches a little
as I run sunshine over its back in the morning
it turns from me at night
into the darkness of flowery front yards
it hangs yellow porches
and a stained glass door or two
clicks tile walkways into place
the patterns all similar
(though my one is best)
I can unlatch
my gate
one-handed
grocery bag cutting into the other
with the golden weight
of breakfast juice
or books
Would you believe
the street exists outside me
lined with parked cars
that can quicken and flow
round the roundabout
with one centripetal palm tree
Everything is there
I know
straight and real
not bent into
this cocoon of memory
this desiccating pupa
that will not drip with wings
until I stand there again