Jody Azzouni

Glass screams when it dies,

slivering out its teeth in search of flesh.

I have looked for a softer route,

practiced the twilight walk to the cemetery

pipe in hand for warmth.

Later, safe at home,

I can watch the smoke

curl out of the warm bowl

almost alive,

and remember the ghosts

their brains still spongy with plans

but dead on their feet nevertheless.

I never see angels

(I guess that’s not an option)

and each night

(after I’ve hung up the garlic and crosses)

I pray I can settle for the simple charm

poltergeists have:

the easy rapport

with children

and toys.

Heaven knows I try to think

of other things: clouds, puddles, childhood.

But when I visit my old haunts

I can’t help wondering how long I could keep it up.

And when I see a puddle,

I search for the inchoate faces

that sometimes lurk there

and doubt there is much of a future

in any of this.

© 2002 Jody Azzouni