The Proof / Joshua Alan Sturgill
I know You
do not love me. The proof
is when I open my hands. Again
a bird. Again a bowl
of pasole. Another painting
of a closed door. I’m not
the Christmas table cloth,
stained and frayed with
time, who listens
to our families’ families’
conversations and bears the weight
and patiently takes those secrets
back into the dark drawer
another year. Again
a bird — this time a lark — leaps
against the glass in a frantic
confusion. She says if/then:
If love, then
an open widow.
She asks on my behalf: why
as promised by their design
do my wings not always lift me
into the sky?
All poetry and supplementary material: copyright 2026 by Joshua Alan Sturgill. All rights reserved.
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