Not every danger points down
some stalk the air–his words–
beware his claims
of your beauty so great
he nearly crashed his chariot
at the glimpse of you on the road;
and your voice that caressed his ears
and petted him to sleep each night.
Beware the sturdy rope ladder of pleas
and appreciations he knots
together with expert hands.
You could climb those rungs, fit
your body through a window slit
where he waits behind,
dropping the bars
once you step in.
Contributor’s Notes: Andrea Potos is the author of four poetry collections, most recently We Lit the Lamps Themselves, from Salmon Poetry in Ireland. Her poems can be found widely in print and online.