by Taylor Brunson
René Magritte, 1953 Yes, erosion, many-mouthed and tender, undresses us, but I promise I will stay with you until the end. I would rather our slow unwinding than what is taken by every ship sailed, and days’ annual stretching toward what I am afraid to hope for. Yes, the season returns the sun, sharpening its gaze with each passing year, blue-lipped seas drawing closer. I am sorry for the length of this lesson— that I asked you to turn our backs to the water, every other fish glistering like precious stones, and how willing you were to avert your eyes. It has taken me so long to turn into you, ready to be unmade under wide-tongued tides, but I promise the future is swelling to meet us. What is left for the fish thrown back if not a world warming over, forever hooked? Please. I promise I cannot let you go. ____ Taylor Brunson is a poet living in Chapel Hill, North Carolina, whose work has recently been featured in or is forthcoming from Non.Plus Lit, perhappened, Dwelling Literary, Horse Egg Literary, and Interstellar Literary Review. Taylor serves as an assistant poetry editor for Four Way Review and an assistant nonfiction editor for Nashville Review.