[Aaron Poochigian]

The Jitterbug

Wherever they took the three of us that night –
some place that had a jukebox or a band,
a VFW hall, a gym – has darkened
and narrowed, leaving in an oval spotlight

their sudden holding hands, their drifting through
a blurred crowd, and now their parallel
spins and matching kicks, how they fell
right into it, hopping in sync, how they knew

how to do it all, even her sweep
beneath his legs – old skill resumed with just
a song they both recalled, some wordless trust.
This little glowing cameo I keep

of my parents, that moment they were stars
one night when they forgot their quiet wars.