About Centaurs
By Zuzanna Ginczanka
Sharpened verses, rhyme to rhyme rubbed against each other
with the chattering of teeth
—trust not the narrow faculties, that none would possess you,
—trust not fingers, like the blind,
nor eyes, like handless owls.
Here I preach passion and wisdom
tightly conjoined at the waist
like a centaur.
I profess the dignified harmony of a masculine torso and head
with the exuberant body of a stallion and thin hock of its leg—
—to the cold, feminine cheeks
and napes of rotund mares
they gallop majestically, the centaurs
in horseshoe bells from the meadow of mythology.
Their passion focused and wise
and their wisdom smoldering like rapture
I found in a harmony dignified
and I alloyed them in waist and heart.
Take a gander:
a reflection
of an ancient face
entrusted its divinity to flushed horses,
and quivering senses rush through June
like trammeled steeds across the arnica.
