Jody Azzouni



Originally published in The Peninsula Review, Winter/Spring 1999
Added 8/10/2020
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Poem | Jody's Notes


My father is dead.

I look at the tomatoes he’d planted

and realize ghost

is a crop like any other.


I talk to the ground,

beg it to manage something

better this time. But no,

what wanders through the living room

that evening

is insubstantial as usual.


We chat,

nothing new going on in his life,

mine idle with triviality.

I’d lie, but I can see he doesn’t care.


After he leaves,

I lay out all the color photographs

of him I can find.


I pretend the snapshots are flowers.