Welcome back, peeps. We have another complex and thought-provoking poem from Ada Limón's Bright Dead Things poetry collection.
The Last Move
By Ada Limón
It was months when it 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 non-existent 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.
This was before we got the dog even, and before I really
trusted the paralyzing tranquilizer of love stuck
in the flesh of my neck.
Back home, in my apartment, another woman lived there.
In Brooklyn, by the deli, where everything
was clean and contained.
(Where I grieved my deaths.)
I took to my hands and knees. I was thinking about the novel
I was writing. The great heavy chest of live animals
I had been dragging around for years; what's life?
I made the house so clean (shine and shine and shine).
I was suspicious of the monkey sounds of Kentucky’s birds,
judging crackles, rusty mailbox, spiders in the magnolia tree,
tornado talk, dead June bugs like pinto beans.
Somewhere I had heard that, after noting the lack
of water pressure in an old hotel in Los Angeles,
they found a woman’s body at the bottom
of the cistern.
Imagine, just thinking the water was low, just wanting
to take a shower.
After that, when the water would act weird,
spurt or gurgle, I’d imagine a body, a woman, a me
just years ago, freely single, happily unaccounted for,
at the lowest curve of the water tower.
Yes, and over and over,
I’d press her limbs down with a long pole
until she was still.
Thoughts going through my mind:
Thought I would gain a little more by listening to a reading of this poem, so I found this recording of Ada Limón reading five poems from Bright Dead Things. Here's the recording link if you're interested (listen from 0:12 to 2:41): https://www.pw.org/content/bright_dead_things_by_ada_lim_n
"This is Kentucky, not New York, and I am not important" = Poem conveys a sense of loneliness and detachment when acclimating to new environments (moving states, etc.) + the journey of rediscovering ourselves amidst changes (perhaps Limón doesn't enjoy leaving New York)
"I put my apron on as a joke and waltzed around carrying/a zucchini like a child" = self-mocking? Attempting to escape the confines of domesticity?
Interesting reference to the death of Elisa Lam; it's honestly quite chilling when Limón writes: "I'd press her limbs down with a long pole/until she was still."
What's up with the repetition ("over and over" & "shine and shine and shine")? Does the repetition provide some sense of comfort?
"what's life?" = I think this question is at the center of Bright Dead Things as Limón opens up about her life and gives the readers an opportunity to connect with her experiences and reflect on our own lives (sort of like a self-help book via poetry)
Again, there's a lot more to think about here, but I'm going to leave it for now. If you would like to share anything, feel free to send me a private memo or drop any comments below. I'll see you tomorrow.
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