We shared
a picnic on a water-warped
table without really sharing
anything.
Conversation was
stilted
and the distance
was too evident.
The chatter of
other picnic-goers
mocked our stagnancy.
I wished for
their sense of
ease.
You
ate chicken salad slowly,
seemingly avoiding
table talk.
Leaving me with
the swarm of
words in my
head but no sound.
Using kid
gloves we
treated each other
like thin
glass.
***This is an interpretation of Elena Carter’s “The Picnic”
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