Vox Populi

A Public Sphere for Poetry, Politics, and Nature

Sharon Fagan McDermott: Carrie Furnace, Pittsburgh

The light is water driven through old gears and red lights sweep the streets looking for the lost while flaking brick simmers in itself like stew,   and black graffiti … Continue reading

April 3, 2019 · Leave a comment

Sharon Fagan McDermott: The Book of Lesser Angers

presses each broken thing like an autumn leaf between pages where I watch the pace of disintegration, lacy residue.   Rain writes within it a sloppy welter—the neighbor shaking her … Continue reading

March 8, 2019 · 1 Comment

Sharon Fagan McDermott: What I Won’t Tell Myself

The moon salts the sky with stars and the only sounds in the house are the dog’s breath and the furnace’s belch through old pipes. On this coldest night of … Continue reading

January 19, 2019 · 1 Comment

Sharon Fagan McDermott: Halloween, Pittsburgh

such tender ghosts with their small hands reaching into bowls and baskets, so much that’s wrapped in shine even in the rain, even after disaster, even as the adults bury … Continue reading

November 2, 2018 · 2 Comments

Sharon Fagan McDermott: Sodden

About the Kavanaugh hearings…   Awash, amuck in gunk and mud, the slogging bile of the rain Doused and logged, the watered tier of dying garden suddenly slippery, sopping, drenched. … Continue reading

October 17, 2018 · Leave a comment

Sharon Fagan McDermott: The Body Dreams Itself

into an avenue of steam, the streetlights glow a slick sheen. And down this road, this August night thick as wet wool, a car rattles. The body dreams itself heavy, … Continue reading

October 8, 2018 · Leave a comment

Sharon Fagan McDermott: The Lapses of Rain

Even in dreams, I fail to recognize these men. They are white blurs, edgeless, still talking. They turn rivers into sludge. Eagles into silica; air to lead.  I wake up, … Continue reading

April 24, 2017 · Leave a comment

Sharon Fagan McDermott: Summer Prayer — Pennsylvania

            ~in memory of Brendan   We make each other a mooring, early evening here in the small world, where gods grumble and root in the dirt and the red … Continue reading

July 12, 2016 · 4 Comments

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