The Carrying

Poems

Ada Limón

• Editorial: Milkweed Editions
• Año: 2018
• ISBN:
  9781571319944
• Categoría: Literature
• Categoría: Poetry

NBCC Award Winner: "The narrative lyrics in this remarkable collection... could stand as compressed stories about anxiety and the body." — The New York Times Vulnerable, tender, acute, these are serious poems, brave poems, exploring with honesty the ambiguous moment between the rapture of youth and the grace of acceptance. A daughter tends to aging parents. A woman struggles with infertility—"What if, instead of carrying / a child, I am supposed to carry grief?"—and a body seized by pain and vertigo as well as ecstasy. A nation convulses: "Every song of this country / has an unsung third stanza, something brutal." And still National Book Award finalist Ada Limón shows us, as ever, the persistence of hunger, love, and joy, the dizzying fullness of our too-short lives. "Fine then, / I'll take it, " she writes. "I'll take it all." "Gorgeous, thought-provoking... simple, striking images." — Publishers Weekly (starred review) "Exquisite." — The Washington Post "Pitch-perfect... full of poems to savor and share... She writes with remarkable directness about painful experiences normally packaged in euphemism and, in doing so, invites the readers to enter a world where abundant joy exists alongside and simultaneous to loss." — Minneapolis Star-Tribune Winner of the National Book Critics Circle Award for Poetry

1

A NAME

When Eve walked among

the animals and named them—

nightingale, red-shouldered hawk,

fiddler crab, fallow deer—

I wonder if she ever wanted

them to speak back, looked into

their wide wonderful eyes and

whispered, Name me, name me.

ANCESTORS

I’ve come here from the rocks, the bone-like chert,

obsidian, lava rock. I’ve come here from the trees—

chestnut, bay laurel, toyon, acacia, redwood, cedar,

one thousand oaks

that bend with moss and old-man’s beard.

I was born on a green couch on Carriger Road between

the vineyards and the horse pasture.

I don’t remember what I first saw, the brick of light

that unhinged me from the beginning. I don’t remember

my brother’s face, my mother, my father.

Later, I remember leaves, through car windows,

through bedroom windows, through the classroom window,

the way they shaded and patterned the ground, all that

power from roots. Imagine you must survive

without running? I’ve come from the lacing patterns of leaves,

I do not know where else I belong.

HOW MOST OF THE DREAMS GO

First, it’s a fawn dog, and then

it’s a baby. I’m helping him

to swim in a thermal pool,

the water is black as coffee,

the cement edges are steep

so to sink would be easy

and final. I ask the dog

(that is also the child),

Is it okay that I want

you to be my best friend?

And the child nods.

(And the dog nods.)

Sometimes, he drowns.

Sometimes, we drown together.

THE LEASH

After the birthing of bombs of forks and fear,

the frantic automatic weapons unleashed,

the spray of bullets into a crowd holding hands,

that brute sky opening in a slate-metal maw

that swallows only the unsayable in each of us, what’s

left? Even the hidden nowhere river is poisoned

orange and acidic by a coal mine. How can

you not fear humanity, want to lick the creek

bottom dry, to suck the deadly water up into

your own lungs, like venom? Reader, I want to

say: Don’t die. Even when silvery fish after fish

comes back belly up, and the country plummets

into a crepitating crater of hatred, isn’t there still

something singing? The truth is: I don’t know.

But sometimes I swear I hear it, the wound closing

like a rusted-over garage door, and I can still move

my living limbs into the world without too much

pain, can still marvel at how the dog runs straight

toward the pickup trucks breaknecking down

the road, because she thinks she loves them,

because she’s sure, without a doubt, that the loud

roaring things will love her back, her soft small self

alive with desire to share her goddamn enthusiasm,

until I yank the leash back to save her because

I want her to survive forever. Don’t die, I say,

and we decide to walk for a bit longer, starlings

high and fevered above us, winter coming to lay

her cold corpse down upon this little plot of earth.

Perhaps we are always hurtling our bodies toward

the thing that will obliterate us, begging for love

from the speeding passage of time, and so maybe,

like the dog obedient at my heels, we can walk together

peacefully, at least until the next truck comes.

ALMOST FORTY

The birds were being so bizarre today,

we stood static and listened to them insane

in their winter shock of sweet gum and ash.

We swallow what we won’t say: Maybe

it’s a warning. Maybe they’re screaming

for us to take cover. Inside, your father

seems angry, and the soup’s grown cold

on the stove. I’ve never been someone

to wish for too much, but now I say,

I want to live a long time. You look up

from your work and nod. Yes, but

in good health. We turn up the stove

again and eat what we’ve made together,

each bite an ordinary weapon we wield

against the shrinking of mouths.

TRYING

I’d forgotten how much

I like to grow things, I shout

to him as he passes me to paint

the basement. I’m trellising

the tomatoes in what’s called

a Florida weave. Later, we try

to knock me up again. We do it

in the guest room because that’s

the extent of our adventurism

in a week of violence in Florida

and Fr...