by Taylor Brunson
What’s electric, uneeled, is a knifefish. In a pulse, language, a reading of the room. The electric eel is shaped like an eel. The electric eel will produce electricity like a knifefish. I tell you how electric eels swim backwards and forwards, thriving in stagnant water, ribbon of a fin making its own waves. How electric eels have taught me how little it means to be named and unnamed, whether there is a peace to be made between what others make of you and what you know of yourself. Stunning unribbon, unblade, unfish, uneel. Electric, homing where a threat can be carried furthest. I know what you are but what am I if I cannot cut the water, here in the place where I can be called anything. ____
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.