Maggie Smith: "We are a chorus of voices, singing in the dark, trying to find the light."


You rub against the world,
gently elbow your way along in the dream of your job.
Polished in spots, rasped in others,
you come home burnished, shiny, tender.
You are so like everyone else in your uniqueness,
all the same but different:
Your love of hush puppies slippers, the hammer dulcimer.
Dying too soon, living too long, your fear that it's one or the other.
So you breathe in and out,
the involuntary control of the tide of your life,
incessant coming and going of the moon, the itch you can't reach.
With luck you'll taste the dazzle-sweet sap of love,
make some sense of the word soulmate.
You are haunted by dreams:
To hold your childhood teddy bear.
To coast over the ocean on currents of salty air.
To find your animal spirit is brave and true.
To have that feeling, a glimmer of coherence.
So much is the opposite of love, hate - so much the same.
And, the language we speak, words, static in the air we breathe,
an endless chorus of voices,
the talisman against our doubt that any of this is real.