First Engagement

      There was this Sicilian place.

      You had to take the ferry

      to get there. Or we did,

      living in Brooklyn. The ferry

      was free and crowded, but we

      elbowed our way to the rail.

      Commuters sat inside, drank

      beer from the concession stand,

      and read the daily news.

      We’d gotten engaged,

      but we’d call it off soon.

      At the Sicilian place,

      a woman sat beside us

      and ordered every appetizer

      on the menu. She told us her cat

      was dying. Baby, Baby is dying.

      Later that night, we argued

      by the B61. The word marriage

      hung in the air like an obscenity.

      Nevertheless, I remember staring

      into backlit windows,

      imagining life unrolling

      as smoothly as the stocking

      over an actress’s leg.

      At home, I told our cat

      she’d live forever. You said,

      Don’t give her false hope,

      then took your fatalism

      to bed. That was the summer

      your mother worsened.

      Once, toward the end,

      she told me to eat the dahlias

      before leaving. Whenever

      I’m served a salad with flowers—

      nasturtiums or marigolds—

      I think of that and how

      I would have eaten the dahlias