Maple

It was not the exposed roots that bothered me

but what I could not bring

myself to say. And what I could not fashion

for you: A space in me.

An understanding

of all moments I lifted you toward the sky.

We fed squirrels corn and peanuts. My arms

shine with aches. But I lack iron. I’ve always held

you close. I watched where your steps left me.

This space will always remain

as if it were a punctuated clause

that decorates a dullness. That is

both equal and unequal

to the collapse of clouds.

A memory that all memory fits. I heave.

It feels as if I have been falling my entire life.

Note on the text: The line “A memory that all memory fits” is my variation of a line from Forrest Gander’s “What It Sounds Like” from Be With.

Tyler Michael Jacobs currently attends the University of Nebraska at Kearney where he serves as Editor-in-Chief of The Carillon. He is the recipient of the Wagner Family Writing Award Endowment. He has words in, or forthcoming: East by Northeast Literary Magazine, Aurora: The Allegory Ridge Poetry Anthology, White Wall Review, The Whorticulturalist, The Hole in the Head Review, among others.