Jill McDonough is a fascinating poet who doesn’t force anything, many times she meanders her way through her poetry’s words. She makes me both laugh and ponder things, often at the same time. She often writes of American domestic life, and though we all know that life’s problems are abundant, her poems have a way of reassuring the reader. After reading some of her poetry, you come to know that McDonough operates from a position where she sees the good, even a certain joy in life. Love enters and underpins much of her work. While her poems don’t aggressively jump out at the reader as profound, or stunning, reading her poetry was a good place to be, to be held in her words. What an intriguing world she creates.

[These poems set me to exploring my own mind, consciously and unconsciously.]
At one point, as I was operating without enough sleep, I drifted off at the beginning of one of her poems. Without consciously remembering the first lines, I continued on, composing line after line in my sleeping head. As those lines came to me, it also became seriously clear to me that when I finished the poem, my life would end. I had no judgement or fear from that realization, just a certainty. Since I’m here and writing this, I either never came up with the poem’s last line, or I was completely wrong, or this is death. Do all of us know for sure when we have left our everyday reality? Couldn’t this be just another moment in time, a moment where we simply continue on in our own story. Or, just possibly, life is an uncompleted poem. ( )