"Centaurs", Brian Fisher. Monotype Print (1/1), 10 x 10 in. The Ailanthus Altissima, Tree of Heaven, planted by my Grandma Fisher had metamorphosed into a thicket resembling a giant asparagus patch by the time I was born. My cousin, brother and I had however recognized the trees true equine nature and would each select and snap a brittle steed from the patch and gallop up the creek bank and into the pasture. While they imagined themselves as cowboys or Indians I knew, I always knew, we were Centaurs. From “The Centaur” by May Swenson My forelock swung in my eyes, my neck arched and I snorted. I shied and skittered and reared, stopped and raised my knees, pawed at the ground and quivered. My teeth bared as we wheeled and swished through the dust again. I was the horse and the rider, and the leather I slapped to his rump spanked my own behind. Doubled, my two hoofs beat a gallop along the bank, the wind twanged in my mane, my mouth squared to the bit. And yet I sat on my
