I Don't Miss It by Tracy K Smith

But sometimes I forget where I am,
Imagine myself inside that life again

Recalcitrant mornings. Sun perhaps,
Or more likely colorless light

Filtering its way through shapeless cloud.

And when I begin to believe I haven’t left,
The rest comes back. Our couch. My smoke

Climbing the walls while the hours fall.
Straining against the noise of traffic, music,

Anything alive, to catch your key in the door.
And that scamper of feeling in my chest,

As if the day, the night, wherever it is
I am by then, has been only a whir

Of something other than waiting.

We hear so much about what love feels like.
Right now, today, with the rain outside,

And leaves that want as much as I do to believe
In May, in seasons that come when called,

It’s impossible not to want
To walk into the next room and let you

Run your hands down the sides of my legs,
Knowing perfectly well what they know.

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.