eachan holloway


Close your eyes
and imagine it as it
should be,
the lights not breaking
apart in your eyes
when you dream
and your dreams
not breaking
apart in the morning
when you are confronted
by the terror
of another redundancy.
Close your eyes
and listen to all of this
which is holding
together the dead blades
of the beaches,
the absence of presence,
the water searing
away at the water,
at that which was before—
you do not remember,
you do not recall
that you were here
to find something,
and instead you have lost


There are those who will turn
on you and those who will
find you and those who will
disappear and those you will
find only to lose again and those
who lose you lose you lose you
every season and those who
you thought would be dead
thought the same
about you and those who hated you
for so long those whom you hated
for trivialities and absurd
accomplishments that you
used up all your hate and even
most of your love and even those
who sit in judgment
carry on their vices in the dark
of someone else’s room not
their own as you stand in the light
of  the kitchen stunned by how quickly
you are vanishing.



Eachan Holloway has published poetry in the Massachusetts Review, The Indiana Review, Denver Quarterly, Quarterly West, Prairie Schooner, Agni, among others. He was born in Alaska and raised in Maine. At present, he teaches high school English outside of Los Angeles.