Jody Azzouni



Originally published in No Exit 4:3, 1997
Added 11/09/2020
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Poem | Jody's Notes


Sex, the helpful grope, the lust for blueprints

exchanged in the heat of the moment.

Then a cigarette, leg dangling over the edge,

something new deep inside

whispering divide and conquer.


Fertility has its moments, it’s true.

Once we thought it necessary to cut

someone’s throat in a field,

leave the carcass for gods to eat.

No more such crude solutions: if

worse comes to worst, cloning is in,

the cell, sparked unnaturally,

the small litany of commands:

You be liver, you brain, drawing straws.

Admittedly, regardless of how

it gets started, they sometimes get it

wrong: a two-headed child, thoughtless to boot;


anyway, modesty forbids the yell of triumph ;

better, the unexpected gargle of shock,

the small realization that one

is being passed over while


there’s the dawn of oneself

inherited again from space

and time, reincarnated as

blend of image and pattern,

oneself there as river

in ocean, all of it flesh,

with its movement serene through time.