print previewback TYLER MILLS
Tree
My belly a pond. Pine cones in the firs.
The pink sac wrapping you
inside me looks like branches—
the veins radiating, sun stained.
Blood love. So we swim together,
slow laps, my arms chopping the water.
What world am I bringing you? We go
to the edge and back, and you push
hard on me. Nearly out. Soon. Only you
can see what you see. Some afternoon,
I hope you pause in the shade, the leaves
little moons or hearts marking your face,
and think not of me, but of the familiar—
a likeness not breath, but like breath. 