Ada Limón

limonI first heard Ada Limón read at San Francisco Litquake’s World Series of Poetry. I found her work alive and intriguing.

Here’s sample from her latest book:

The Last Move

It was only months when I felt like I had been
washing the dishes forever.

Hardwood planks under the feet, a cord to the sky.
What is it to go to a We from an I?

Each time he left for an errand, the walls
would squeeze me in. I cried over the nonexistent bathmat, wet floor of him,
how south we were, far away in the outskirts.

(All the new bugs.)

I put my apron on as a joke and waltzed around carrying
a zucchini like a child.

This is Kentucky, not New York, and I am not important. Continue reading “Ada Limón”