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 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 Schooner, Alaska Quarterly Review, and Sugar House Review, and was a finalist for the 49th Parallel Contest for the Bellingham Review.