[audio style="wnyc" display="mini" caption="Read by the author." url="http://downloads.newyorker.com/mp3/170605_smith_audio.mp3"]
One of the women greeted me. I love you, she said. She didn’t Know me, but I believed her,And a terrible new ache Rolled over in my chest, Like in a room where the drapes Have been swept back. I love you, I love you, as she continued Down the hall past other strangers,Each feeling pierced suddenly By pillars of heavy light.I love you, throughoutThe performance, in every Handclap, every stomp.I love you in the rusted ironChains someone was madeTo drag until love let them beUnclasped and left emptyIn the center of the ring. I love you in the waterWhere they pretended to wade,Singing that old blood-deep song That dragged us to those banksAnd cast us in. I love you, The angles of it scraping atEach throat, shouldering past The swirling dust motesIn those beams of lightThat whatever we now knewWe could let ourselves feel, knewTo climb. O Woods—O Dogs—O Tree—O Gun—O Girl, run—O Miraculous Many Gone—O Lord—O Lord—O Lord—Is this love the trouble you promised?
