The Empty Novel

There was so little
Life to that poor life
The novelist thought
Of imagining,
So little to write.

But that was the life
The novelist felt
Compelled to invent,
After seeing news
Photos of babies

Carried, limply dead
In rescuers’ arms
After bombs, earthquakes,
Mudslides, massacres—
Icons of horror.

The novelist wrote
A short novel first,
Focused on a child,
Then a long novel,
Encompassing kin.

But the novelist
Didn’t like either.
The novelist took
A ream of blank sheets,
Bound them and shelved them.