Poetry/Creative non-fiction/fiction

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.



Lake Powell at Dusk July 29, 2012

Filed under: Haikus Summer 2012 — jessicacolleenmcdermott @ 9:40 pm
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The canyon swallows itself at night. Cliffs glow

black against purple sky.


Moonlight March 7, 2012

Filed under: Poetry — jessicacolleenmcdermott @ 4:57 pm
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I never saw you touch the lawyer or the

baker’s wife. Never saw you look at them

with eyes that pet and plead.  But five days

before your anniversary,


when Lilly’s hands sunk a bullet into her spine

that stuck until the day she died, did you feel

it too? The lead like bleeding ink in a constant

pinch down to her feet.  The twist


of something lodged so deep in bone and flesh

that it grows invisible to all but you. Because you still

feel it breathe. You’ve tasted its smoothness on sleepless


nights with lovers that coo and touch but never give

birth to something that lasts. But leave. Like


sunlight on your face. A moment of warmth that

escapes.  The holy moment when skin meets skin

and you, the feeler,  feels what it means to ache for

someone else.  To grasp onto a climax that can’t be

spoken, only sensed in the space of a blink.


When the moonlight disappears into sun and you

alone lock your door up tight. So no one can squeeze

between the spaces, and you don’t speak or leave just

sit and stare. I can feel your loneliness. The self-inflicting

shots of lead meant to leave holes through chests and weight

onto backs that doesn’t end but stays.

And lasts.


Brisk Air January 10, 2012

Filed under: Poetry — jessicacolleenmcdermott @ 4:58 am
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Idaho plays dead in the winter. The maze of cotton woods

Become bare brown knots.  The slew sits still, solidifying

Deeper and deeper in cracked bubble sheets.


My cat disappears most days. Her fur thick as a rabbits,

Glows. I can barely make her out as she paws through

Snow towards my, Here kitty kitty, here kitty kitty.


At sunrise, my gaze catches east, towards the Menan

Buttes. The sun’s blanket of gold shatters the peaks.

Light stretches to the box car barn, and the feeding

Shed, erasing the shadow of numbing air from the

Gray wood.