From the Void

Dark drank the moon,

a cube in her drink,

contained sin

in a glass quarantine.

The cream of water

lay between her

legs like ointment,

dabbing at a sore heat;

earth stabbing at her

red, poor feet

each dawn of spring

in white socks,

no shoes,

blind with no reason,

sequestered each season,

like this one,

for a verdict:


a red potato was born

this day

in the palm of her empty hand.

© Andrea Mathews, 2014

Photo by Keith Grantkeith-grant-void


Birth is such a bizarre event,

bleeds through the sheets

like light peers around solid objects

for shadows to lean against,

as evidence.


Coming here, being here always has the surreal quality of living inside a dense body. We look for evidence in both shadow and light. We can lean against our lives to prove we exist, or we can simply be.


© Andrea Mathews, 2014


An Ode To Outer Space

Synchronistically the apple tries its flight

and wind blows;

the fish parts the waves for a glimmer of air

and wind blows;

whispers of the darkness

that holds it all together

thunder past your ears

riding a bike, running.


The darkness—not the light—is the source.

Without air, it holds the air,

without movement,

it holds all movement,

as space, as emptiness

it holds all the crowded places,

the claustrophobic closets of mystery.


Be still in the terrible darkness,

feel its silence run through

your veins, until your heart beats

with the emancipation of

timeless, airless, empty

nothingness—where everything

lives. Such darkness reveals

the soul.


© Andrea Mathews, 2014



Hawk, frozen in midair,

hawking around like a fly,

rubbing her fore feet together,

slipping into the deep sky

like a fish,

dying there,

hard as this color of hell.


She spread her wings

and stood there,

took off and watched herself

more than the air, the mountain,

her prey.

When the temperature dropped

below sea level, she rose higher,

skidding into the tops of things,

like her own reflection.


That’s when it happened.


She just stopped,

wingspan terminally measurable.

Who knows what she is thinking,

but the air has captured her,

she breathes on ice.


One would think she would be

planning her escape.


But if you look as high as the end

you will see from her eyes

that she has simply decided

to keep doing the same thing.



Is it the measurement you seek, or the flight? The measurement only measures over and over again to see if it matches the image.  The flight is uncertain, rare and alive.

© Andrea Mathews, 2014


Wings fold, opening again like water.

Slipping into the blue serenity,

she winks into her next move.

She knows that shapeshifting

nuance that plows through you

like Tsunami—that knowing

the same as her flight,

certain without a single thing

to hold.

She pulls every observer

into her emptiness

until they are full of her flight.

Her snowfall visits again

late in the night


saying and saying

the nothing.



Transcendence is not a battle, not even an effort. It is the grace to say yes to the tsunami of moving from caterpillar to butterfly. But crawling isn’t a problem to be solved, it is just another emptiness–like flying.


© Andrea Mathews, 2014

blue butterfly