RENÉE M. SGROI

table setters

slanted late day sun,
    a web in the grass

shimmers

like a skein
    you wind me into

the wool of you,
    all the tight curls

you carry inside your chest,
    braided.

i forgot to give you this thread

(its tangled knots), or chose
    not to

untangle cords

you wound     yourself
    a different maze

to enter into

where the minotaur
    sleeps

on its own hooked rug.

i can’t account
    for lines of sedge

that lead us labyrinthine

into the hedges
    we are making.

in the park,
    children play

hide and seek
    behind tall oak

and maple trees
    as if small bodies

could weave themselves
    into bark

like spirits.
    when it is time to eat,

they will sit
    at wooden picnic tables

their parents prepare,
    wiping away cobwebs.

were we meant
    to be each other’s

table setters, to feast
    on dried, trapped words

we siphon, like spiders?

you carry me
    like an ant

that drags another
    dead ant

to its territory

perhaps
    you will locate me

in the grass,
    where sky will

spin above me,
    Corona Borealis

glinting