The Ancient Modern
Bar Gods / Joshua Alan Sturgill
in that familiar idolatry
— like the prickle
of an illness just taking hold —
I catch the face and intuit
the body beneath the clothes
of a young divinity
still lustrous with
belonging.
When did I learn the skill
to unselve myself,
to become audience and judge,
consumer of bodies and souls?
A mouth without digestion.
A desire without reproduction.
A fire without light.
In the illness,
in the recast world of my fever
I am the loitering
penitent; you are the glass saint
anchored in the window.
I pray to you: give me
what you are — invaluable
at any cost.
If you withhold,
no matter: eyes can steal
what hands are denied.
Like the alabaster
from which the idol is carved,
you remain unmoved
by my lust (or is it
pain?). You do not see me enter;
you won’t remember my vows
when I am gone.
This temple is yours,
where everything is arranged
for your sacrifice
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