The Hurting Kind: Poems

by Ada Limon

He takes only what he needs and lives a life that some might call small, has a few friends, likes the grass when it’s soft and green, never cares how long you watch, never cares what you need when you’re watching, never cares what you do once he is gone.

Every now and then, his teeth come at me once again; he wants to teach me something, to get me where it hurts.

Could you refuse me if I asked you to point again at the horizon, to tell me something was worth waiting for?

I want to watch them and not feel so abandoned by hands. Come home. Everything is begging you.

What is the world like out there? Are you singing in the tunnels?

What is it to be seen in the right way? As who you are? A flash of color, a blur in the crowd, something spectacular but untouchable.

We burrow. We hunch. We beg and beg. The thesis is still a river.

I wanted to catch something; it wanted to live.

Why did I never see it for what it was: abundance?

But who are you to kill your own bloodline?

Love ends. But what if it doesn’t?