You warm me as I curl in your womb.
I must cut myself from where you feed me
like I was cut from where my mother
once fed me. As you hold those I love
to consume in your fertile flesh,
I find comfort in the fact
that you sleep when I sleep, Sometimes
night slips past to float up
from your distant shoulders and leave
us in wonder. Shielding our eyes
from the glisten of light off windowpanes
to look up at the coming blackness
and feel the dust roll in on ourselves.
The grass will bend westward
We run from what sometimes enters
a room first. I despise your shadow
for betraying me when mine reached out
to say: You can’t lose time, only find it.
One day I will swallow up your sky, and the sun
will fall and keep falling. Until then,
I wake now with my hand over your belly.
Tyler Michael Jacobs currently 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: White Wall Review, Runestone, The Hole in the Head Review, The Wax Paper, Aurora: The Allegory Ridge Poetry Anthology, Funicular Magazine, among numerous other journals.
Burnt Pine 