| They say I lure men to their deaths here.|
The enchanted wake to find that flesh is bone
my lips, my tongue the gentle lap
of lilies taking root in the throat
as they drown.
But they are lies, Love.
What tales they invent,
This place used to hold me prisoner
My rosy flesh grew rigid
They say I haunt these shores
I watch the owls sweep like phantoms.
I had so much to say
Your penance turns these marshes cold
but sometimes the dead struggle
Shannon Connor Winward is a Delaware writer of speculative poetry and fiction. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in such venues as: Pedestal Magazine, Flash Fiction Online, This Modern Writer [Pank Magazine], Vestal Review, Witches & Pagans Magazine, Basement Stories, Illumen, The Magazine of Speculative Poetry, and Dreamstreets, and the upcoming anthologies Jack-O’-Spec: Tales of Halloween and Fantasy (Raven Electrik Ink) and Twisted Fairy Tales Volume Two (Wicked East Press). Her current projects include haunting the open mic, converting young readers to magical realism, and pimping her first novel. To read her accounts of writing, mommyhood, and general sassiness, stop by her blog at http://ladytairngire.livejournal.com/.