Cosmognosis

Splinter in the deep meat that throbs
when an empty bucket chimes
                                                  against
stone. I was a child when my brothers
left me. On the wind,
                                    I could smell
 
rain. Sometimes it’s when the daylight
dwindles. I had to grow my legs
                                                    (wings)
to follow. I had to cut my hair and
weave a shirt from nettles.
                                            Sometimes
 
it’s when you return to the berry patch
and find only trampled
                                      stems. Beneath
the sternum a little hollow place aligned
with moon. Restless,
                                    restless and scent
 
of snow now. Look, on these dark mornings,
all I want to do is get moving. Throw
                                                             three
things in a bag and find the nearest road.
Water. Wool. Whiskey.
                                      I’ve saved three
 
silver coins. I’ve learned the lessons.
Oh brothers, call and I will set out.
​

 Fall 2026

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Erin Coughlin Hollowell is a poet who lives at the end of the road in Alaska. Her poetry collections Pause, Traveler and Every Atom were published by Boreal Books. Her collection Corvus and Crater was published by Salmon Poetry. She is most recently published in Shenandoah Literary Magazines, Ploughshares, and Poetry Northwest. She is the executive director of Storyknife, a women’s writing residency center. ​

Art:  L. I. Henley 
“Scorpio Girl: After Rebecca Hart Olander's Singing from the Deep End,” 2026
Colored pencil, acrylic, notebook paper, found The Jesus and Mary Chain album art