Based in Modesto, California, Matthew J. Andrews is a private investigator and writer whose poetry has appeared or is forthcoming in The Dewdrop, The Jewish Literary Journal, Spirit Fire Review, Braided Way Magazine, and Amethyst Way, among others.
Empty lot: cursed soil burned black by the raging fires of summer sun, parched as a dead man’s lips. Yet winter rains bring thick skin of green, the moist breath of grasses, the fluttering heartbeat of insect wings, and their echoing hymn: Nothing dead must stay that way. Morning light brings night’s decay.
When the ink printed on paperfeels rigid, sterile,we can close our eyes,lean in, and empty our breath.That’s when the letters separate, rise,dance in the air like leavesflittering as they fall. We collect what we can,rub them across our skin,swallow them whole and feelthem warm inside of us.The ones we miss formkite strings across the skyas…
