Jaz Persing is a writer, singer, and human living in Los Angeles. She works in television when she can. The rest of the time she’s just looking for a dare-to-be-great situation, hoping she can put a good dent in the world with the mess of broken love, vulnerability, and words she has. In the meantime, she’s immensely grateful for God and the many good people around her that make it all seem feasible.

To My Love, on the Eve of the Super Blue Blood Lunar Eclipse

Once in a blue moon
My backyard bathed in moonblood moonlight
Moon blue like me
See what I did there

As I observe
Lying unfolded like then
When we enmeshed and found our crescendo
By this same glass wall

The air colder, light warmer, streaming in
But maybe it wasn’t as real as this blue illumination that only comes
Every century and a half
But I’m always alone in full moonlight

So I will worship more devoutly these soft rays  
That plucked me from obscurity
And made me spark to life inside when

“Now I can see you”, you said
But how deep could we really have seen?

Then we were still laughing at “made love” 
But these were laughs girding loins
Two souls beat down by the game, now making sure
Our house hearts are boarded up and
Buttressed by ironic smiles
Sunglassed eyes pretending
Not to look at the road, but silently noting
The same destination intended

No glib observations can spackle over the gaze connected
The longer-lingering embrace by the entry
That would have become home
That door never was very good at staying closed

Does it sound like I’m writing with smoke on my voice?
Do I sound a million miles removed from the earth we moved?
This is a trick I will muster and master in time
Till I will this trick to truth
And awake without craving your form to envelope and contain mine

Weak from the fervor of feeling wild and safe in one
I couldn’t contain my coos and sighs in contentment
It follows that my wails and sobs would be just as untethered   

I must find a way to write about romance before it slides into tragedy
Before the Poetry Supervisor takes me aside in whispered tones
Mastering a mix of shame and concern that I know like a song in my queasy gut
“Excuse me, but you’re depressing our readers.”

But Hemingway could never write about Paris
Until he was ripped away from it
How many rippings will feed the pages of my life?
And will we have Paris, always?

Once in a blue moon
I guess we missed this one
But if you’re not busy in a hundred and fifty years
You can rest here with me
Even if our bodies run cold
You said you run hot
And we will make this moonlight
Finally warmer


No Defense