by Alan Shapiro

    It may not be

    the ghostly ballet

    of our avoidances

    that they'll remember，

    nor the long sulks

    of those last months，

    nor the voices

    chilly¹ with all

    the anger we

    were careful mostly

    not to show

    in front of them，

    nor anything

    at all that made

    our choice to live

    apart seem to us

    both not only

    unavoidable

    but good， but just.

    No， what I think

    will haunt them is

    precisely² what

    we've chosen to

    forget： those too

    infrequent （though

    even toward

    the end still

    possible） moments

    when， the children

    upstairs， the dinner

    cooking， one of us

    would all at once

    start humming an old

    tune³ and we'd dance，

    as if we did

    so always， in

    a swoon of gliding⁴

    all through the house，

    across the kitchen，

    down the hall

    and back， we'd sway

    together， we'd twirl，

    we'd dip and cha-

    cha and the children

    would hear us and

    be helpless not

    to come running

    down to burrow⁵

    in between us，

    into the center

    of the dance that now，

    I think， will haunt them

    for the very joy

    itself， for joy

    that was for them，

    for all of us

    together， something

    better than joy，

    and yet for you

    and me， ourselves，

    alone， apart，

    still not enough.

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