Poems & Essays

16 May


General/Column No Response

I haven’t written anything
since you were conceived
my creative breath like calories
consumed to feed you, every
burst of energy a spark
fanned inwards.

I haven’t written anything
since we wrote you
empty pages exploding with things
for which I have no words.

I would lay down sonnets
to mark your coming
weave sestinas to wrap you in
color the world with stories
just to brighten it for you
but I have none in me.

I have no words.

I have written nothing
since I conceived of you
and, for once, I am content
to rest in silence – not a writer
but an audience
as your narration unfolds.

Shannon Connor Winward’s poems have appeared or are forthcoming in Analog, Gargoyle, The Pedestal Magazine, Strange Horizons, Literary Mama, and Hip Mama, among others. Her chapbook, Undoing Winter (Finishing Line Press, 2014) was nominated for an SFPA Elgin Award. She is also a staff writer for Pop Culture Madness and a poetry editor for Devilfish Review.

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Only Child May 16, 2016 Wordsmith May 16, 2016