Oregon by Matthew J. Andrews

It was on a backwoods highway, snaking

through a dense forest of pines,

that we encountered the angel, the sentry

in white, his sword alive with flames

and swinging like a pendulum.

We requested passage and he said nothing.

At night the moon began to bleed,

dripping scarlet light onto the damp dirt,

and the earth convulsed and seized,

making the rivers slosh like an epileptic bathtub.

Trees fainted and then fractured in collision.

Cancerous smoke choked life from starlight.

In the morning we knelt on bruised knees

and begged the angel to let us in,

to let the sweetness of long-desired fruit

dance on our tongues and cascade down our chins,

but he drew the fiery sword to our necks

and shouted, Begone, for sunset is nigh!  

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Based in Modesto, California, Matthew J. Andrews is an American private investigator and writer whose poetry has appeared or is forthcoming in Sojourners, Red Rock Review, The Dewdrop, Deep Wild Journal, Braided Way Magazine, Song of the San Joaquin, and Remington Review, among others.