Thursday, 5 February 2015

1 Poem by Erin O'Connor

If You Can’t Fight It, Write It 

Nights awake I wonder
Where we might have been
Had I convinced you
I was dying or
Got you pregnant then

Instead you woke and wandered off,
Slipping past my traps.
I can’t hold on to finish this
My
        rhyme
                      will
                                     now
                                            col
                                                  l
                                                     a
                                                       p
                                                          s
                                                          e

Into dead poetry-prose, straining to rhyme reason with reconciliation and forcing meaning into metaphor. Floundering with me ter, syllables confounding the common critiquer as he stumbles in de feet – shoeing the shoeless and cutting lines complete. My god, poetry has invaded my prose

So, here it goes . . . again
And there it went.

I missed it.

Bionote

Erin O'Connor lives, writes, and teaches in Northern Colorado.

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