Tyler Jacobs
ELEGY
The trees expose their souls in winter. Purple remains
The hue of death as felled trees rot and drape frosted propane
Tanks. Friction settled in the palm. We never think
Of having to begin again as if the sun drowned and groundhogs
No longer played in the yard. I tell my brother, as we remove
The doors to our father’s house, that the air inside these walls
Killed him. He takes deep breaths through his shirt. I
Hack and wheeze with my palms and knees in the sand
Blown yard before sunset. A few more months
And everything will return as if wounds were never opened.
About the writer:
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, East by Northeast Literary Magazine, Aurora: The Allegory Ridge Poetry Anthology, Funicular Magazine, among numerous other journals.
Image: Befindlichkeiten (Sensitivities) by Eberhard Marx (1951- ). No medium specified. No size specified. By 2010. By free license.
