by Matthew J. Andrews
Mine is a manna-spirit, a holy being with an apron tied around its waist, who finds me when I am aimless and gently places my hands in the muck,
forcing me to work with my fingers until I have something resembling solidity, a tacky ball of clay, and then to knead, to pound and pull it into a resilient
mass that clings to its shape. The angel then sets me down, teaches me to breathe in slow rhythms like lapping ocean waves as we wait. All day long it is rest
and work, cyclical patterns of reflection and activity, a death preceding a birth. Finally, there is the purification of fire, and at the end, the angel shows me
the hardened shell, and buried under, a holy meal, airy and soft, with spirit- swelled pockets of smoke and breath: a Sabbath gift, a harvest for my toil.
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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