Ada Limón

This morning, we consider a poem by American poet Ada Limón (born March 28, 1976), who in July 2022 was named the 24th Poet Laureate of the United States by the Librarian of Congress. She is the first Latina to hold this title.

Limón is the author of six poetry collections, including: The Carrying (2018, winner, National Book Critics Circle Award) and Bright Dead Things (2015, finalist for the National Book Award).

Invasive

What’s the thin break
inescapable, a sudden thud
on the porch, a phone
vibrating with panic on the nightstand?
Bury the broken thinking
in the backyard with the herbs. One
last time, I attempt to snuff out
the fig buttercup, the lesser celandine,
invasive and spreading down
the drainage ditch I call a creek
for a minor pleasure. I can
do nothing. I take the soil in
my clean fingers and to say
I weep is untrue, weep is too
musical a word. I heave
into the soil. You cannot die.
I just came to this life
again, alive in my silent way.
Last night I dreamt I could
only save one person by saying
their name and the exact
time and date. I chose you.
I am trying to kill the fig buttercup
the way I’m supposed to according
to the government website,
but right now there’s a bee on it.
Yellow on yellow, two things
radiating life. I need them both
to go on living.

--Ada Limón

[Virginia Quarterly Review, Winter 2021 Volume 97 # 4]