by Matthew J. Andrews
It is here, under the heavy blanket of silence
that accompanies exile, with the body cut
in patterns by the skin wrinkled with age,
that he finally understands how one can be
surrounded by life, in a garden of ancient trees swaying
in the wind and flowers opening themselves
to the beckoning of sun, and be so empty.
How one can look up at the star-speckled
heavens and see the shapes of prowling beasts,
each floodlit by the fire on the horizon.
How one can stack stones into temples,
blood on the brow, eyes red with grief,
and imagine what it is to be reborn
in order to give birth to something new.
Matthew J. Andrews is a private investigator and writer who lives in Modesto, California. His poetry has appeared or is forthcoming in Funicular Magazine, The Inflectionist Review, Red Rock Review, Sojourners, Amethyst Review, The Dewdrop, and Deep Wild Journal, among others. He can be contacted at matthewjandrews.com.
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