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.