Engagement

They'll sink a year into this,
saving up for one hundred and forty-seven
filets of fish. A gaggle of ancestors
will flutter and gripe
if the photos don't flatter. They'll learn
to spell boutonniere and pray
the invitations arrive as
intended, acid-free.

A groomsman, I promise
to do whatever is asked, perform
heavy lifting, charm Aunt Sarah
shipped in from Vegas— you, a bridesmaid, promise
to fuss with the ringbearer's
shoelace, force the bride to
eat at dinner. We promise
to smile.

Tonight, over drinks, we keep quiet
while they meet the caterer,
the organist, the man who runs the church.
We absorb. Green without envy.

Walking slowly up the hill to the car,
out of earshot, you whisper
(delivering chills as intended
across every rib) a vow:
when — IF — you get married,
it will be small,
simple. A lock of eyes will
serve as ceremony, no
keeper of you to give you
away. A highest tide
and a gust of wind
and you'll sail
across the threshold,
a man, one
soul, to consume.

Now your lips smack my cheek
once, burning intended, and
I'm giddy to think you've
taken a chunk of my face away
between your lips. Fingers, yours
I think, lift towards this bruised fruit —
beneath the touch, we feel the
flesh whole, blood bursting
at that spot, anointed.