Matthew J. Andrews

matins

Before the first ray of light,

there was nothing but darkness,

thick clouds of it hovering

over the waves, God

in his little rowboat, eyes closed,

heart humming with the silence.

These days we make it ourselves,

a thousand tiny fires to add

to the sun spilling through our windows.

There has never been so much light,

so many priests to tend to it.

Yet beyond our reach: blackness,

more than we can know, flooding

the vacant corners of the universe.

And still there is night, where we see

most clearly our frailty, where voices

of terror bubble up from the stomach,

where we stare blankly into shapelessness.

And there he is: slowly rowing, oars

a whisper as they break the waters.

confession

The angel who talked with me had a measuring rod of gold to measure the city, its gates and its walls.

~ Revelation 21:15 ~

When it’s all over, when what’s left

of the world sizzles with flame

and the line to hell snakes for miles

like the opening of a roller coaster,

the holy men will be on hands and knees,

holding rulers against jasper walls.

Fellow pilgrim, will you hear my confession?

I no longer measure once, twice,

a thousand times in hopes the blade

will miss my flesh when it slices.

I throw garlic in the pan with abandon.

I let the watch die on the grave of my wrist

and fall asleep when my body tells me to.

I cover my speedometer with duct tape

and drive for hours with the windows down.

Dear pilgrim, if one day you find me

shuffling along with those who’ve fallen short,

can you take your ruler and calculate

the distance between us? Can you tell it

to God himself? Then can you measure his arms?

Matthew J. Andrews is a private investigator and writer. He is the author of I Close My Eyes and I Almost Remember, and his poetry has appeared in Rust + Moth, Pithead Chapel, and EcoTheo Review, among others. He can be contacted at matthewjandrews.com