An Engagement

I was gathered in, circumspect
when you crashed the door. Beside yourself
with reason, you point out the arcs of dust
and cobwebs. I follow like a let-go balloon.

As you unstring my conceits one by one,
I see the stove’s pilot extinguished,
and the emptiness of the shelves. I right
upset plants and fold maps while you
flip though the calendar with its demands.
I jerk the curtains shut, happy

as though in my right mind. I don’t think:
this happens all the time. Instead I say:
Call the priest. The one
with the cold fingers and eye

before he dies, before we lose the light
before the days become watery and thin
before we are unclimactically forgiven
and old. Before I forget the day we met—
the look in your eye and the tilt of your head—
before I forget what it was I came here to say.

Maryrose Flanigan