I HAVE ONLY
By Joshua Alan Sturgill
I have only one dog
buried in a canyon in New Mexico, and only one mouse
who suffered crucifixion on a glue trap under my refrigerator
and clearly spoke the words I Thirst to me
before he drowned.
And I have only one pair of shoes
and one keepsake
and one regret (though I am terrified to think:
what wouldn't I change
if I had the chance or the power?).
And I have only one house
and one beloved tree who taught me
how to pray (who — thus I give my tree
a soul) before she was torn from the mountainside
in the blast of a thousand-year storm.
And I have only one garden
which I have never seen, so
I start ever again the planting, the sowing,
the turning soil. An artist who paints a dream
never finishes, because the gold in his dream is blood
and he must conjure from memory
and from skill and from reason the oils
that communicate a nights-long journey
in unmoving color bound by a frame (just to begin,
how tortuous it is to make memory,
skill and reason agree!). You, my only brother,
were there and you remember earth's voice
that singular moment
when nothing was expected
because nothing was concealed
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All poetry and supplementary material: copyright 2026 by Joshua Alan Sturgill. All rights reserved.
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