Jody Azzouni


Making Dew

Originally published in Artful Dodge 32/33, 1998, under the title: "Making Do."
Added 8/24/2020
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Making Dew

Poem | Jody's Notes


I preach each day in the subways.

They sit stone-faced, tame as bricks.

I tell them the bad news:

that dirt pulls like nothing else

—that they act like they’ll live forever,

although we know the flesh is pooled inside

is waiting for a leak. I warn them

about a God’s rage: the suffering chicken parts,

the stuff that nestles quietly among the blisters,

bread mold. “The atheist can avert his eyes

when apparitions pass,” I say,

“but His fingers will still touch his wrists

like handcuffs.”


They don’t react.

I pull at the hairy shadow on my face

and try again. “He leaves hints of another way,”

I cry. “Your hands melt snow transparent,

there is light everywhere, and the inevitable rain,

clean for a moment.” But they are deaf,

their ears are ornaments, strange jewelry

I am not tempted to steal.


I sit in the park alone,

my shopping bags cuddled around me.

There is moonlight, of course,

white pebbles, running water.

And at dawn, at miraculous dawn,

I can see the tears of God,

small pearls that dot the grass,

and, gloriously, the baptized insects

that are Christian for a moment.