I went foraging and
ate the wrong plant
or maybe
the right one because
I fell asleep on a granite overlook
and woke up a centaur,
strong and hooved.
Oh, the sounds I could hear
the tiniest crack of a branch
the Sun calling my name
and I could smell lightning 20 miles away.
I charged up and down the Appalachian Trail,
picked up a boulder, tossed it into the air.
I ate a blueberry bush for lunch,
spoke with some rabbits who
introduced me to a turtle who
was friends with a deer who
feels like family, if I am honest.
We all rolled around in the meadow and
laughed and laughed and laughed before
letting the constellations rock us to sleep.
I woke to a rhythmic beeping
(not a drum)
People were staring, hovering, crowding me
(not hikers)
but people I think I know
saying I am loved and to
please hang in there.
Sure, I can do that.
I am a centaur.
Deig Sullivan is a New York-based writer who also works in the field of cultural strategy. Her poetry can be seen in Pensive, Main Street Rag and Naugatuck River Review. Her work was recently longlisted for the Plaza Poetry Prize.
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