Poetry/Creative non-fiction/fiction

Ars Poetica: “To Write A Poem” September 1, 2013

Filed under: Poetry — jessicacolleenmcdermott @ 3:38 am
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“To write a poem,”

you become an axis mundi for the middle class blues – for the steady job your dad lost five years ago, and for your first embrace with the ocean, how you imagined its water like hands connecting you to every place at once, for your mother who snuck stacks of folded laundry into your room while you slept and gently placed them into your drawers, for the last time you locked eyes with a deer in Cache Valley and a shiver wound up your spine. It stood still as stone in the middle of a frozen street, breath pushed like exhaust from its black nose.

For the yellow primroses that shook open in mid-June when you were eight, for the seconds you spent watching them peel open with nothing on your mind. Because when you watched the father in Gaza kiss his son’s forehead beside his rubble bombed home, you saw your brother’s hands, how they cradle your nephew, rocking in the same motion.

For the snap of dying leaves up the Crimson Trail early autumn, for the hum of plastic space heaters in winter, and for the birthday cards your grandmother sent with five bucks tucked inside. Because one Christmas, a box was left on your doorstep: a black sweater for you, lip-gloss, a brown belt for your brother, a pair of jeans, cans of corn, green beans, kidney beans, instant potatoes, a chocolate cake mix, and a loaf of bread.

For your first kiss at sixteen in a driveway, for discovering how wet mouths are, for the electric buzz of running a finger across a lover’s lower lip, for losing your virginity after too much vodka on a mattress on an unfamiliar floor, for feeling regret, for looking in a mirror and seeing your mother’s smile, for the last time your grandpa bounced you on his knee in Victor, Idaho and sang “Pony Girl,” and tickled you until he reached your “bullet-hole” below your right rib.

For only sleeping with blankets made by people you know, for throwing strips of toilet paper into the riverbed past midnight and knowing it was wrong – the white paper falling like bodies into the black water. For wanting to be wanted, for wanting to run away to Europe, for getting a passport, for leaving where you are from, for swimming in the ocean even though sharks have real teeth.

For playing school in your garage with National Geographics and a green chalk board, for kissing your childhood dog, for rocking the orange-striped kitten runt and humming to her until she died, for burying animals in your horse field, for forgetting the date, for spending New Year’s Eve playing Risk with your brother.

For never jogging past an animal without whispering hello, for picking Indian Paint Brush in the Teton Valley and placing them in paper cups, for running while the sun rises, for sleeping in the farm house your great grandpa built below Oxford peaks, for waking to your grandmother’s voice chanting “good morning, good morning” and feeding you homemade bread and oatmeal.

For finding mice in a bag of oats, for sneaking cheese to a neighbor cat, for your pet hen that ran away, for your dead albino rabbit and the black lab stuck in his cage, for knowing loss, for meeting someone who you already feel you know, for shaking hands, for the first letter addressed to you, for watching rows of alfalfa and potatoes bend into a circle when you drive past, for a field of wheat rendered burnt-orange in a sunsets mouth, for the “perfect” shell you found at Dillon Beach. Because words aren’t enough, because the first time you wrote a poem you cried. 


House Recital in Logan, Utah December 12, 2012

Filed under: Poetry — jessicacolleenmcdermott @ 7:18 am
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That room must still exist, behind a white door,

a wood floored parlor with French doors that open

into a piano room.


In the corner, three bottles of opened Merlot, a plate with

sliced carrots and broccoli next to a saucer of hummus

and a pot of warm cider.


On your cheek, a flicker of candle light. Me on your lap,

my fingers tracing up and down your arm.


The hum of Debussy’s L’isle Joyeuse. The other guests

mere outlines like ghosts.


That 1870s house with the golden etched wallpaper and lazy

crystal chandlers. It hasn’t dissolved back into reality. Back

into nothing.


The rustle of programs floating onto laps and the clap of hands.

The young performer’s bow- he would be past thirty by now.


A black scarf looped loose around your neck, dark rushes of curly

hair down to your shoulders.


The smell of fire, white paned window heavy with fallen snow.



Dreaming a Mother to Life

Filed under: Poetry — jessicacolleenmcdermott @ 7:16 am
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Once I dreamt a child in a striped shirt was left on my doorstep.

I cradled her all night, swayed in the brown recliner you


folded laundry in, while I slept upstairs.

Her body warm in my arms, head carved against my chest,


her dark hair a curly bob sliced straight at her chin. Like

my hair at six. The scent of ammonia after two perms- our hair

only different in color.


It is the only place I see you beyond gray stone. Beyond an engraved

name, the outline gone black with time- a repeated


dream. Your body wrapped in a green nightgown, the soft creek of

a swaying chair, the stroke of hands soothing fabric still hot with

dryer’s breath.



Filed under: Poetry — jessicacolleenmcdermott @ 7:14 am
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Winter mornings are silent- noises smothered liked packed snow.

I stay wrapped up in bed long after I wake.

I dream of retraced kisses from the nook of your ear down to your collarbone.


My pulsing heart a mountain stream, a soft hum of water spilling over moss topped rocks.

Our breath puffs like glowing smoke under a full moon. You unbutton your coat

and pull my hands inside. I feel your skin breathe beneath a tight t-shirt.


You kiss my mouth, sucking my bottom lip until you’re sitting on the

hood of my car. The metal is like ice. A thin layer of frost hugs the back window.

I imagine never getting up. Spending the entire day under five blankets.


Never waking to the reality of what went cold between us. Of the weight that comes

from not knowing how to kill a dead thing.


The pounds it stacks onto our tight smiles.


My right hand curled rigid atop my pillow, below my cheek. You stay asleep like stone.

Your naked body only heat beside my own.


Your arms tie around me, eyes still shut. I drop my head to your chest and strain to

read heartbeats stuck snug under the cotton of my limp quilt.




Wind Storm in the Desert July 29, 2012

Filed under: Haikus Summer 2012 — jessicacolleenmcdermott @ 9:45 pm
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Dust like heavy fog.

Blood shot eyes- sand paper throat.

Howls that whip and sting.


Annular Eclipse: May 20, 2012

Filed under: Haikus Summer 2012 — jessicacolleenmcdermott @ 9:44 pm
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A shadow melt from right corner

to center. The end: a ring of gold.


Red Slot Canyon

Filed under: Haikus Summer 2012 — jessicacolleenmcdermott @ 9:42 pm
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Slits thin as time. Back to rock. Front

to rock. No sight. Only light above.