Table of the Dead

I set a fourteenth place to ward the curse
from supper, while without a fourteenth guest;
the fourteenth place, the envoi of the verse,
as empty as the table, blank, at rest;
the candelabra pours a pool of gold
on forks and knives; now tip an arc of red
into a loving cup, and drink the cold,
in fourteenth place, at Table of the Dead;

and thirteen diners sit and break their bread,
I murmur private grace. A place is free;
I sit, demurely bow my whited head,
for here, I fear the dark, unconscious me.

I took the fourteenth place and danger fled;
my luck in thrall, the Table of the Dead.