Three Poems by Shannon K. Winston

Ways to View Jean Miró’s Triptych Bleu, I, II, III
1961 

Start with the left
and you’ll see rain on
a windshield after a storm.  

Begin with the right,
you’ll see only a kite string
drifting against the sky.  

There are a thousand
ways to begin a story.
With the middle, perhaps,

is best: with a red sewing
needle stitching up black holes.
Or maybe they aren’t  

holes, but pebbles
skimming the water
seconds before they sink.  

There are also a million ways
to interpret a story.
The way I took my lover’s  

silence for indifference.
The way she thought
my idle chatter was irreverence.  

The way I sometimes
thought my sneaking to
her house in the middle  

of the night was so lonely—
our secret rendezvous
collecting like black dots  

against a blue canvas.
But then again,
how lovely the snow fell   

all around me as I
trekked back and forth
between her house  

and mine at midnight.
The sidewalk appeared
like black ovals

beneath
my feet where the snow
had melted. These  

tiny openings.
How easy silence seemed.
Chosen, not imposed.  

Like something
I could lean into,
like a simple red sliver.  

A blot of paint. To
embroider, decorate.
To strip back, to cut.  

Yes, maybe
this is the best
way in.  

Word Games & Space Travel

          Michael Thompson, Girl with a Hole in Her Stocking, 2008

A hesitation. A hole. A rip.
          Sometimes, my thoughts

proceed like this. Like a teasing
          at the seams where one

thread loosens, then another
          only to contract in another

place. The way I think splinter,
          then sister. O’ the association

games she and I played
          to pass the time. Fall,

she’d say. Leaves, I’d reply.
          Cotton candy, clouds.

Statement-response,
          syllables stitched up

the hours. Almond, eye,
          telescope.

Words aligned imperfectly,
          but that was the pleasure.

In the crevices and cracks,
          we sought out the ineffable.

What do you see?, I’d ask.
          A blue earring pulsing

in the baseboards.
          What do you feel?, her follow-up question.

My toe pushing through
          a rip in my stocking.

Bending down, I marveled at
          the smallest opening

widening, widening
          into ever-expanding present

where I feel grass, I feel bark,
          and leaves and linens

drying on clotheslines.
          Trampolines and hot air balloons.

Yellow wings (are they mine)?
          Here, the horizon is no thicker

than thread from which violet-
          blue beads hang,

tiny orbiting planets
          beneath my touch.

The Stories We Tell: Fox in a Block of Ice

On display in Fridingen, Germany
January 2017

I shouldn’t,
but I find it beautiful.

The way its paws lift
slightly as if still

in movement;
its yellow fur

somehow softer,
more vulnerable

pressed against ice
which amplifies

its body like
a magnifying glass:

the spots on its back,
the black fur

around its neck.
This is as close as

I will ever get.
Except its face is

submerged in
cracks too thick

to see through.
As if the river that

froze it also wanted
to protect it

from those
who would later

marvel at it,
forgetting,

as I do,
that it’s not just

a piece of art.
I lean in closer

as if looking for
a story I can learn from—

one about cold
temperatures,

difficult crossings,
and eyes that never shut.

Shannon K. Winston’s work has appeared or is forthcoming in The Inflectionist Review, Pretty Owl Poetry, A-Minor, Crab Orchard Review, and Zone 3, among others. Her first poetry collection, Threads Give Way (Cold Press), was published in 2010. She earned her MFA at Warren Wilson College and teaches in Princeton University’s Writing Program.