Sticky cords spun around my wrists
and throat wrapped

stuck
in the threads of the Weaver.

Her web a warm, snug prison
every time the wind blows, I sway.

It will all be
okay.

I am dancing
above the ground

my body pulses, silk
gestating in my belly

pain is invisible perfect
seeping from my

chastened fingers, humbled joints
blessed even to tie a knot

let alone a symphony, touch
a blade of grass

a telephone pole
waiting

to tell you I understand now
Lady what beauty is.

[Poetry by Shannon Connor Winward can be found in Eternal Haunted Summer, Pedestal Magazine, Strange Horizons, Literary Mama, Star*Line, Enchanted Conversation: A Fairy Tale Magazine, and elsewhere.  Shannon recently earned Honorable Mention in the L. Ron Hubbard’s Writers of the Future Contest for short fiction, and as an emerging artist in literature by the Delaware Division of the Arts. Her debut chapbook of literary and speculative poetry, UNDOING WINTER (Finishing Line Press), was released in 2014.  In between writing, parenthood, and other madness, Shannon works to support local artists, and here and there has been familiar with a microphone.  Visit her on the web atwww.shannonconnorwinward.com]