How easy it is to feel a cold wind
dancing across the length of your arm
and forget the force of the flames,
the blistered braille on the skin.
How faded the ecstasy of bone dances
in the valley, the heartbeat thump
of stomping echoing in the desert sky.
How intimate you become with the dust
until clouds return in flocks
and bathe you in their songs.
How deep the ache in the chest until
you remember to exhale and breath anew.
Based in Modesto, California, Matthew Andrews is a private investigator and writer
whose poetry has appeared or is forthcoming in The Dewdrop, pacificREVIEW,
Deep Wild Journal, Song of the San Joaquin, and Eunonia Review, among others.