The Story And The Lens

The Story And The Lens / Joshua Alan Sturgill

You say it’s an illusion caused by light refracted through the rain?
Forgive me, I thought it was a promise of Mercy.

You say it’s an electrical charge released suddenly from the clouds?
Forgive me, I thought it was Arjuna hearing the voice of his Charioteer.

You say it’s a chance evolution allowing males to attract a mate?
Forgive me, I thought it was a revelation of the Tao. Please

excuse the breadth of my belief. You see, I was traveling
through a story broad enough to weave beauty with physics,

and the cardinal flying through the storm was gnosis revealed
against the humble, hidden ground of being. If you want,

I can close the edges of my narrative, losing part of myself
like the bee dropping some of its pollen as it enters the hive

or the lizard detaching its skyblue tail to fool the hawk
or the emperor who disrobes to bathe, or the father

who folds his limbs to fit into the blanket fort. See? I can step
into the laboratory; I can look through the lens of the machine.

Forgive me, though, because while listening to you explain the world
with strings and laws and photographs, I think again of Venus.

You say she’s stone wrapped with swirling poison? I won’t disagree.
But in my story she is also the goddess who joyfully heralds the Dawn