Shannon Connor Winward

Speak, Sir, and I’ll listen — but know, I’ll burn my new moon offerings all the same.
Fool, messiah, lover, brother — you spurn my new moon offerings all the same. 

We talk in code — water of life, oil and grain. I give in trade, my secrets.
Careless man, you break them — my heart, my urn, my new moon offerings all the same. 

How you delight in words, denounce idols, husbands, your clever tongue seeking my
deferential lips and thighs. You yearn for my new moon offerings all the same. 

You take succor at my lap, my well, and tell me that I thirst. When you leave me
for your spring of truth, I will return to my new moon offerings all the same. 

Heavy is our burden, we who fall for favored sons. To please Heaven, we draw 
the river dry. And yet, in this, we learn our new moon offerings all the same. 

I will not disabuse you, He who, of God’s children, has yet to sacrifice.
But know, on the night you bleed, She’ll discern your new moon offering all the same.


SHANNON CONNOR WINWARD is an author of literary and speculative fiction and poetry. Her work has appeared in such places as Pedestal Magazine, Flash Fiction Online, Strange Horizons, Illumen, Ideomancer, Inkscrawl, Jabberwocky, and This Modern Writer [Pank Magazine], as well as in genre anthologies on both sides of the Atlantic. Shannon is a member of Science Fiction and Fantasy Writers of America and the Science Fiction Poetry Association, and a Rhysling Award nominee. She lives and writes in Newark, Delaware. For more information, visit her Web site.