Blurred in reflected light, they shake
and twirl while a beat pounds all
sense from conversations. From a round
table cleared of drinks and plates,
you look beyond the dancing forms,
a bride and her maids, a groom
somewhere and parents and aunts,
beyond the shifting canvas they comprise.
Stare through the huge panes
into a wooded night, not to name
oak and linden, maple and birch,
but to see the shapes of lovers
you’ve known–a woman who just
suddenly left. In the air out
there your children drift through
leaves and shadows. Out there, a kiss
you’ve never imagined lands on a cheek
slightly older than yours and still.
Michael Lauchlan has contributed to many publications, including New England Review, Virginia Quarterly Review, North American Review, Valparaiso Poetry Review, Sugar House Review, Louisville Review, Poet Lore, Southern Poetry Review, Rhino, and Poetry Ireland. His most recent collection is Trumbull Ave. (Wayne State University Press, 2015).