by Shannon K. Winston
 

Peer (n.v.):

When you say peer, I hear pear. I think of the day in late August when I pulled over and snuck into a stranger’s backyard to steal fruit right off the tree. I left three seeds in recompense. Somehow, the trade seemed equivalent. The way I substitute an “a” for an “e” or an “i.” Peer, pear, pair. The way I rearrange a phrase until it becomes another: read paper, appear dear. Things work like this too. An almond: a pendant. Blue canvas: a strip of the sea. A hand: the state of Michigan. Appear dear. Your face, too, reminds me of someone I once loved. Please understand then why I call you by a different name.

Shannon K. Winston’s poems have appeared in SWWIM Every Day, The Los Angeles Review, and Dialogist, among others. Her work has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize and several times for the Best of the Net. She earned her MFA at Warren Wilson College. Find her here: shannonkwinston.com