Ars Poetica

Shanna Powlus Wheeler

I write for the same reason I believe
the Word became flesh: I will die.

Each poem brings me hours
closer to breathlessness, to leaving

a record of words like a line
of mourners. God, forgive my vanity

in wanting remembrance—help me
channel praise to the wellspring.

And if I die while my child
is too young to know me beyond

comforts of face, voice, touch,
may she find me later in lines

rendering what shimmers.
Daughter, perch there with me

like those goldfinches in trees
outside this silver-streaked window

where we sit together,
watching through rain for spring.

—Shanna Powlus Wheeler