Lynne Potts
Thus Sayeth Xanthos

Xanthos warned Achilles he would die that day
but Xanthos was a horse; even so Achilles believed
him and inside the belief was a dark forest
with a russet pine cone and inside the cone
a glazed cup with the reflection of a green
and gold chariot crossing the sky and inside
the chariot an ordinary man
with a horse telling the truth
and inside the truth a willow tree
by a small brook with flickering fish
                and inside one fish images
                of other ordinary existences
maybe other forests or other russet cones
you never know
over time as perhaps
                your Xanthos decides to move away.
But amidst the flutter of autumn
                be assured you will still have
                your gold and green chariot
                slowly riding a late August sky.

Mourning After

Last night clouds chased the moon,
then the moon raced to catch clouds
rounding the bend, their bulk lopsided
so soon the whole sky was racing ahead
changing how the world once was

But why did the world get caught up in it?
Was it the chasing or was it the character
of the moon so cold and aloof—or was it
the clouds’ fault, willy-nilly shifting
to different positions all night long?

I don’t understand the sky—what it thinks
of the clouds the moon—or how the world
holds on to its orbit with all the chaos:
torn sheets, thrown dishes, shards of glass
flying around in empty air like vagrant stars.

I don’t see how the world keeps itself
together, how it faces morning—hides
the mess so when the children come
down for breakfast they won’t know about
what happened and what the moon had done.

_ _

Lynne Potts has published two collections with the National Poetry Review Press and one with Glass Lyre Press. Her work has appeared in journals including Paris Review, American Letters,Commentary, Crazyhorse, Meridian, Seneca Review, and Third Coast. She is poetry editor of AGNI.

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