“My eyes are up here,” the centaur said.
We were negotiating
the terms of our trip to Canterbury,
and he was advocating

I ride the entire way on his back:
the fastest choice, of course.
I argued that, having grown up poor,
I’d never sat a horse

and thus ran the risk of falling off
when moving at high speeds.
“And where would I put my hands, besides?
Unlike with normal steeds,

it’s fair to assume you brook no bridle.”
“No bridle,” he concurred,
“Still, I guarantee you won’t get thrown—
For this, you have my word.”

The journey consumed three days and nights.
I wrapped my arms around
his ribcage, and, true to what he’d sworn,
I never struck the ground.

At night, we snuck into drafty barns,
where one quilt kept us warm.
I reasoned that mine’s a motley heart
and his a patchwork form.