For the fourth-month moon showers have,
and the mica on the side of the rock has

 
shine, glisten like that sleek lick
of damp left behind by a snail.

Or tumble of spume on sand
as the tide pulls back and considers

its gleam. Or the rim of clean glass.
The way an old dog’s eye becomes

a lantern out of the dark yard.
Dime spilled from a pocket. Or

a pearl swaddled in silken flesh
still inside the shell. Let me place

within this compendium the split
open peach. And the parking-lot

puddle with its wavering rainbow
we always passed by too quickly, when

I was small and the world still full
of that transfigured type of spark.

 

 

 

Erin Coughlin HollowellErin Coughlin Hollowell is a poet and writer who lives at the end of the road in Alaska. Prior to landing in Alaska, she lived on both coasts, in big cities and small towns, pursuing many different professions from tapestry weaving to arts administration. In 2013, Boreal Books published her first collection Pause, Traveler. Her second collection Every Atom will be available from the same press in April 2018. She has been awarded two Rasmuson Foundation Fellowships, a Connie Boochever Award, and an Alaska Literary Award. Her work has been most recently published in Prairie SchoonerAlaska Quarterly Review, and Sugar House Review, and was a finalist for the 49th Parallel Contest for the Bellingham Review.
 
Read poetry by Erin Coughlin Hollowell previously appearing in Terrain.org and read Erin’s Letter to America.

Header photo of beach and sky by Catharina77, courtesy Pixabay.

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2 Responses

  1. Jeremy Frey

    “Dime spilled from a pocket”‘s rhythm, and so many more. Ah. And Ahh.

    [and, “end of the road in Alaska” — Homer then?]

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