Talking To My Father

Matthew Andrews

You know how when you lift up a large rock

and chuck it over a bridge it makes that strange

sound, like its inhaling noise rather than projecting

it, and then there’s the vertical spray walls followed

by the tsunami ripples that beat the shoreline?

And how the rock deadweight sinks down

into the muddy basement and just sits there,

rooted and stubborn? And how the living water

runs eternal over its surface, rounding and polishing,

eroding it into a glossy diminishment, grinding

it gradually, gracefully, into sand, all the while it never

actually going anywhere? Yeah. Something like that.

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Based in Modesto, California, Matthew J. Andrews is a private investigator and writer whose poetry has appeared or is forthcoming in Sojourners, Red Rock Review, Willows Wept Review, The Dewdrop, and Deep Wild Journal, among others.

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