| Trying to fall asleep, I count down stone steps into the dark, and there they are: Centaurs, half in and half out of the woods, hindquarters still trees. Downstairs in dreams I look directly into their man-eyes, which are opaque, absorbent. They don’t speak. I don’t speak of the long yellow teeth tearing off the little dress—just for a glimpse, no harm done. No hands, no harm. Their hindquarters still trees. No words to explain or contain it. You can’t translate something that was never in a language in the first place. Copyright © 2016 Chase Twichell. Used with permission of the author. |
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