The Leash by Ada Limón

View this email on a browser Forward to a friend January 1, 2016   The Leash   Ada Limón

After the birthing of bombs of forks and fear, the frantic automatic weapons unleashed, the spray of bullets into a crowd holding hands, that brute sky opening in a slate metal maw that swallows only the unsayable in each of us, what's left? Even the hidden nowhere river is poisoned orange and acidic by a coal mine. How can you not fear humanity, want to lick the creek bottom dry to suck the deadly water up into your own lungs, like venom? Reader, I want to say, Don't die. Even when silvery fish after fish comes back belly up, and the country plummets into a crepitating crater of hatred, isn't there still something singing? The truth is: I don't know. But sometimes, I swear I hear it, the wound closing like a rusted-over garage door, and I can still move my living limbs into the world without too much pain, can still marvel at how the dog runs straight toward the pickup trucks break-necking down the road, because she thinks she loves them, because she’s sure, without a doubt, that the loud roaring things will love her back, her soft small self alive with desire to share her goddamn enthusiasm, until I yank the leash back to save her because I want her to survive forever. Don't die, I say, and we decide to walk for a bit longer, starlings high and fevered above us, winter coming to lay her cold corpse down upon this little plot of earth. Perhaps, we are always hurtling our body towards the thing that will obliterate us, begging for love from the speeding passage of time, and so maybe like the dog obedient at my heels, we can walk together peacefully, at least until the next truck comes.            Copyright © 2016 by Ada Limón. Used with permission of the author. About This Poem   “It’s been so hard to write anything joyful these days with so many terrible things happening everywhere. I finally thought of my dog and how she loves her little life no matter what. This year, I want to be more like her, throwing myself ecstatically into this world over and over regardless of what’s coming next.” —Ada Limón   Ada Limón is the author of Bright Dead Things (Milkweed Editions, 2015), which was a finalist for the 2015 National Book Award. She works as a writer and creative writing instructor and splits her time between Lexington, Kentucky, and Sonoma, California.   Photo credit: Jude Domski Poetry by Limón   Bright Dead Things (Milkweed Editions, 2015) "New year’s morning" by Carl Adamshick "Exact" by Rae Armantrout "Deep Lane [June 23rd, evening of the first fireflies]" by Mark Doty Poem-a-Day   Launched during National Poetry Month in 2006, Poem-a-Day features new and previously unpublished poems by contemporary poets on weekdays and classic poems on weekends. Thanks for being a part of the Academy of American Poets community. To learn about other programs, including National Poetry Month, Poem in Your Pocket Day, the annual Poets Forum, and more, visit Poets.org.   You are receiving this e-mail because you elected to subscribe to our mailing list. If you would like to unsubscribe, please click here.   © Academy of American Poets 75 Maiden Lane, Suite 901, New York, NY 10038