I 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”