The Long-Married

Sue Ellen Thompson

At the end of yoga class

there is that moment when,

as we’re lying on our backs

in savasana, the teacher says,

If it is in your practice, roll

to your right side or your left

and rest there for a while 

in fetal pose. We roll instinctively

toward one another and lock eyes

briefly before closing them—

a look that could easily pass

for the shopper’s idle gaze

at the magazine rack in the checkout line,

or the soprano’s practiced sweep

of the balcony’s darkened seats

as she rehearses her aria.

Our eyes don’t meet with anything

a stranger would mistake for love,

and yet there’s something there

that wouldn’t be without it.