The man in the museum
stands beside a mannequin
in the image of his mother.
The woman is horizontal in a truck bed,
at the bottom of a pyramid
of bodies stacked like rolls of carpet.
Her hair hangs down like a curtain,
draping the face of a child
on the ground, uncollected.
He stands every day, he says, with her,
so that men like me can do something
different than what others have already tried.
Miles out of town, we are stranded
on the side of an empty road
while our driver looks east,
his knees pressed on a cardboard mat,
his face shoved deep into the dirt.
Originally published in The Poet: On the Road Anthology, Volume 1
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, Braided Way Magazine, and Deep Wild Journal, among others.
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