The Carrying

The Carrying

by Ada Limón
The Carrying

The Carrying

by Ada Limón

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Overview

WINNER OF THE NATIONAL BOOK CRITICS CIRCLE AWARD

FINALIST FOR THE PEN/JEAN STEIN BOOK AWARD

From U.S. Poet Laureate Ada Limón comes The Carrying—her most powerful collection yet.

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 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.”

In Bright Dead Things, Limón showed us a heart “giant with power, heavy with blood”—“the huge beating genius machine / that thinks, no, it knows, / it’s going to come in first.” In her follow-up collection, that heart is on full display—even as The Carrying continues further and deeper into the bloodstream, following the hard-won truth of what it means to live in an imperfect world.


Product Details

ISBN-13: 9781571315137
Publisher: Milkweed Editions
Publication date: 04/13/2021
Pages: 120
Sales rank: 45,543
Product dimensions: 5.30(w) x 8.30(h) x 0.50(d)

About the Author

About The Author
Ada Limón is the twenty-fourth U.S. Poet Laureate as well as the author of The Hurting Kind and five other collections of poems. These include, most recently, The Carrying, which won the National Book Critics Circle Award and was named a finalist for the PEN/Jean Stein Book Award, and Bright Dead Things, which was named a finalist for the National Book Award, the National Book Critics Circle Award, and the Kingsley Tufts Award. Limón is a recipient of a Guggenheim Fellowship, and her work has appeared in the New Yorker, the New York Times, and American Poetry Review, among others. She is the former host of American Public Media’s weekday poetry podcast The Slowdown. Born and raised in California, she now lives in Lexington, Kentucky.

Read an Excerpt

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 France. Afterwards,
the sun still strong though lowering inevitably to the horizon, I check on the plants in the back, my fingers smelling of sex and tomato vines. Even now, I don’t know much about happiness. I still worry and want an endless stream of more,
but some days I can see the point in growing something, even if it’s just to say I cared enough.

***

The Raincoat

When the doctor suggested surgery and a brace for all my youngest years,
my parents scrambled to take me to massage therapy, deep tissue work,
osteopathy, and soon my crooked spine unspooled a bit, I could breathe again,
and move more in a body unclouded by pain. My mom would tell me to sing songs to her the whole forty-five-minute drive to Middle Two Rock Road and forty-
five minutes back from physical therapy.
She’d say, even my voice sounded unfettered by my spine afterwards. So I sang and sang,
because I thought she liked it. I never asked her what she gave up to drive me,
or how her day was before this chore. Today,
  at her age, I was driving myself home from yet another spine appointment, singing along to some maudlin, but solid song on the radio,
and I saw a mom take her raincoat off and give it to her young daughter when the storm took over the afternoon. My god,
I thought, my whole life I’ve been under her raincoat thinking it was somehow a marvel that I never got wet.

***

Dead Stars

Out here, there’s a bowing even the trees are doing.
Winter’s icy hand at the back of all of us.
Black bark, slick yellow leaves, a kind of stillness that feels so mute it’s almost in another year.

I am a hearth of spiders these days: a nest of trying.

We point out the stars that make Orion as we take out the trash, the rolling containers a song of suburban thunder.

It’s almost romantic as we adjust the waxy blue recycling bin until you say, Man, we should really learn some new constellations.

And it’s true. We keep forgetting about Antila, Centarus,
Draco, Lacerta, Hydra, Lyra, Lynx.

But mostly we’re forgetting we’re dead stars too, my mouth is full of dust and I wish to reclaim the rising—

to lean in the spotlight of streetlight with you, toward what’s larger within us, toward how we were born.

Look, we are not unspectacular things.
We’ve come this far, survived this much. What

would happen if we decided to survive more? To love harder?

What if we stood up with our synapses and flesh and said, No.
No
, to the rising tides.

Stood for the many mute mouths of the sea, of the land?

What would happen if we used our bodies to bargain

for the safety of others, for earth,
if we declared a clean night, if we stopped being terrified,

if we launched our demands into the sky, made ourselves so big people could point to us with the arrows they make in their minds,

rolling their trash bins out, after all of this is over?

***

Wonder Woman

Standing at the swell of the muddy Mississippi after the Urgent Care doctor had just said, Well,
sometimes shit happens
, I fell fast and hard for New Orleans all over again. Pain pills swirled in the purse along with a spell for later. It’s taken a while for me to admit, I am in a raging battle
  with my body, a spinal column thirty-five degrees
  bent, vertigo that comes and goes like a DC Comics villain nobody can kill. Invisible pain is both a blessing and a curse. You always look so happy,
said a stranger once as I shifted to my good side grinning. But that day, alone on the riverbank,
brass blaring from the Steamboat Natchez,
out of the corner of my eye, I saw a girl, maybe half my age,
dressed, for no apparent reason, as Wonder Woman.
She strutted by in all her strength and glory, invincible,
eternal, and when I stood to clap (because who wouldn’t have),
she bowed and posed like she knew I needed a myth,
—a woman, by a river, indestructible.

***

The Year of the Goldfinches

There were two that hung and hovered by the mud puddle and the musk thistle.
Flitting from one splintered fence post to another, bathing in the rainwater’s glint like it was a mirror to some other universe where things were more acceptable, easier than the place I lived. I’d watch for them:
the bright peacocking male, the low-watt female on each morning walk, days spent digging for some sort of elusive answer to the question my curving figure made.
Later, I learned that they were a symbol of resurrection. Of course they were,
my two yellow-winged twins feasting on thorns and liking it.

Table of Contents

Contents

1.

A Name
Ancestors
How Most of the Dreams Go
The Leash
Almost Forty
Trying
On a Pink Moon
The Raincoat
The Vulture & the Body
American Pharaoh
Dandelion Insomnia
Dream of the Raven
The Visitor
Late Summer after a Panic Attack
Bust
Dead Stars
Dream of Destruction
Prey

2.

The Burying Beetle
How We Are Made
The Light the Living See
The Dead Boy
What I Want to Remember
Overpass
The Millionth Dream of Your Return
Bald Eagles in a Field
I’m Sure about Magic
Wonder Woman
The Real Reason
The Year of the Goldfinches
Notes on the Below
Sundown and All the Damage Done
On a Lamp Post Long Ago
Of Roots & Roamers
Killing Methods
Full Gallop
Dream of the Men
A New National Anthem
Cargo
The Contract Says: We’d Like the Conversation to Be Bilingual
It’s Harder

3.

Against Belonging
Instructions on Not Giving Up
Would You Rather
Maybe I’ll Be Another Kind of Mother
Carrying
What I Didn’t Know Before
Mastering
The Last Thing
Love Poem with Apologies for My Appearance
Sway
Sacred Objects
Sometimes I Think My Body Leaves a Shape in the Air
Cannibal Woman
Wife
From the Ash Inside the Bone
Time Is on Fire
After the Fire
Losing
The Last Drop
After His Ex Died
Sparrow, What Did You Say?

Notes & Acknowledgments
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