The Soul by Tracy K Smith

The voice is clean. Has heft. Like stones 
Dropped in still water, or tossed 
One after the other at a low wall. 
Chipping away at what pushes back. 
Not always making a dent, but keeping at it. 
And the silence around it is a door 
Punched through with light. A garment 
That attests to breasts, the privacy 
Between thighs. The body is what we lean toward, 
Tensing as it darts, dancing away. 
But it’s the voice that enters us. Even 
Saying nothing. Even saying nothing 
Over and over absently to itself.