The Ancient Modern
Enclosed, Disguised / Joshua Alan Sturgill
What does it mean, Grandfather
that you gave names to the animals
or that only you, my Father
could carry them through the Flood?
Is the secret enclosed in flesh?
Is the knowledge disguised
as appetite? The sky darkens
again; the ancient candles dim.
Yet I hear the mourning dove
at dawn among the machines,
against the traffic’s hiss.
And maybe I will find her, Father.
She builds a nest of olive branches
in the struts of a cellphone tower,
hiding the hinges of the gate
under her cloud-gray wings