by Shannon K. Winston
It begins with an anagram—
What will Eastman name his invention?
At a card table, he shuffles
letters with his mother. Give me a strong letter,
a K, Eastman mutters, like the click
of the camera. They pick up an O, the shape
of fog clearing over the tip of Yosemite
as Ansel Adams takes his best shot.
D is for Eastman’s declaration:
You press the button, we do the rest.
In Rochester, NY, factory workers
develop 100-exposure rolls
of bicycles against streetlights, and first kisses—
A is for Alaska. But K is for Kodak,
not Kodiak—an island of sea otters
and brown bears. Eastman’s mother clears
her throat. Scrabble is better.
Eastman’s all out of letters. His tea is cold.
Elsewhere, a girl pays a quarter
and straps a camera to her chest.
On her lens, the future falls like snow.
Shannon K. Winston is author of The Girl Who Talked to Paintings (Glass Lyre Press, 2021) and The Worry Dolls (Glass Lyre Press, 2025). Her individual poems have appeared in Bracken, Cider Press Review, On the Seawall, RHINO Poetry, and elsewhere. She holds an MFA from the Warren Wilson Program for Writers. Find her here: https://shannonkwinston.com.
A-minor 