Don't Need a Partner

Their song came on while I was washing dishes.
I didn't turn it off this time.

Every Friday of my childhood,
I watched him catch her by the stove;
the kitchen radio played the oldies
and the pot roast learned to slow.
"Fool, I'm holding gravy!" — "Woman, hold me too."
Us kids would groan up from our homework,
secretly hoping we'd love like they do.

Now the house is down to one plate,
and the radio's gone quiet on the shelf —
but tonight their song came looking,
and my feet remembered by themselves.

I'm dancing in the kitchen,
one hand on the empty air —
love that deep don't need a partner:
I can feel them swaying there.

In the kitchen. (both of them)
Empty air. (holding them)

I turned the radio up louder,
let the neighbors think what they will;
did the dish-towel spin from memory,
did the two-step, standing still.
My daughter caught me from the doorway —
I froze like I'd been caught in crime;
then a phone set down on the counter,
a hand in mine: "Show me the line."

Now the house is down to one plate,
and the radio's gone quiet on the shelf —
but tonight their song came looking,
and my feet remembered by themselves.

I'm dancing in the kitchen,
one hand on the empty air —
love that deep don't need a partner:
I can feel them swaying there.

Truth is, grief kept telling me the music died with them.
But some songs get planted in your body —
in how you stir the pot, in how you sway.
They're not gone. They're choreography.
Every Friday, they still lead.

Mm. (their song)
Mm. (our kitchen)

We're dancing in the kitchen,
two hands where the empty was —
love that deep don't need a partner:
we can feel them swaying, because.

My daughter knows the spin now.
Friday's back on the calendar.

In the kitchen. (both of them)

I'm dancing in the kitchen,

Mm. (our kitchen)

We're dancing in the kitchen,