Lucky Wreck

Poems

Ada Limón

• Publisher: Autumn House Press
• Year: 2021
• ISBN:
  9781637680131
• Topic: Literature
• Subtopic: Poetry
• Index: Literature

The poems in Lucky Wreck trace the excitement of plans and the necessary swerving detours we must take when those plans fail. Looking to shipwrecks on the television, road trips ending in traffic accidents, and homes that become sites of infestation, Ada Limón finds threads of hope amid an array of small tragedies and significant setbacks. Open, honest, and grounded, the poems in this collection seek answers to familiar questions and teach us ways to cope with the pain of many losses with earnestness and humor. Through the wrecks, these poems continue to offer assurance. This darkness is not the scary one,
it's the one before the sun comes up,
the one you can still breathe in.
Celebrating the fifteenth anniversary of Limón's award-winning debut, this edition includes a new introduction by the poet that reflects on the book and on how her writing practice has developed over time.

ONE

First Lunch with Relative Stranger Mister You

We solved the problem of the wind

with an orange.

Now we’ve got the problem

of the orange.

Jimmy once said, Do you get along with everyone

as good as this?

I did not know how to say yes.

In Albuquerque yes is hard/easy/look

a roadrunner!

You there, across the table, could be my opposite

of enemy. I do not want 8 babies.

Are you hooked on height?

I’m trying to stop myself from telling you

about the time I lost my passport

and so thought of killing myself,

identity being an important instrument

of my behavior.

I saved myself by thinking I’d write a novel

and then fell asleep in the closet.

It’s called, the novel, Last Things for Lala.

It is not called, The Contradictory Nature of Hangers.

What is the punctum?

Out of which limb will you grow?

Jimmy had two sons, nice ones.

Two taller than me. I bought them food and listened

to ICP in the 65 Chevy.

I was 53 years old. That’s one year older than Jimmy.

I’ve never been where you live,

but that doesn’t mean I should move there.

I get attached to rocks.

At the tone the time will be: Let’s never die!

We’ve just met, should we move to Ensenada?

Or should I just borrow a pen?

I could tie your shoelaces

together and play king

of the mountain.

I’ve brought a lot to the table.

You’ve brought an orange.

I’d rather sit a kiss than you would.

My fist is like a kiss.

I want a shirt that says, Kiss Me or I’ll Cut You.

I want to start every sentence with,

Let me tell you something, Mister.

Mister who smells like yellow.

Mister who has too many pockets.

Mister who is a Mister times two,

Mister who misses and then gets sad,

Mister whose lunch I’m having.

What to do with the problem of the orange?

Let me tell you something Mister,

you’ve got to peel it.

Little Day

This is what it comes down to:

Me on a park bench, always writing,

This is what it comes down to.

The Great Erector of Invisible Pets

Let me start again,

it didn’t take place in the meadow,

and I wasn’t pretty.

Having lost a bet about a minor thing—dog fights or cockfights,

these recent hallucinations—hard to tell,

I found myself outside the weigh station,

picking paint chips off the wall.

Someone had stolen my shoes.

In the distance, the man at the end of the field became an elk grazing.

I had an important question, it came in four parts:

1. Where are my shoes?

2. What’s so bad about eating lead?

3. Could it be a vitamin deficiency? Can people be unleaded?

4. And then there is aluminum?

There was a strange intimacy of pavement and heat, offensive!

No one answered.

The grainy lead chips looked like bleached bones.

I arranged them in order, like vertebrae,

and I didn’t want to touch it when it was done, I wanted to

build a flesh house for it, and let it crawl.

I wanted to stand over it and wait

and when it was tired, I would let it rest,

when it was hungry I would feed it.

When it had questions, God damn it, I would give it some answers.

This Darkness

This darkness is not the scary one,

it’s the one before the sun comes up,

the one you can still breathe in.

A Little Distantly, As One Should

1

I keep wanting to write about

accidents and how I hate them and it’s so

obvious. Everyone hates accidents.

So, instead I’ve been watching

my neighbors set up their picnic table

and tent (do you call it a cabana?).

The man is wearing a bandana

and a leather vest without a shirt, a look

I’ve never learned to appreciate,

even though I am from California.

The woman looks like that bartender Kim,

but younger. I’ve overheard that they’re

expecting company in approximately 45 minutes.

I have noted the time. I’m excited for them.

It’s hard to be excited for things,

not the same way as I used to, or maybe

it’s just that I don’t get stoned anymore.

Jake and I listened to a Neil Young album

in my old apartment over and over

again for hours. Every time I tell someone that he’s

died, that same image pops into my head.

He’s sitting on the windowsill with the light

behind him so you can’t see his face.

I’m...

Table of contents

• Cover Page
• Title Page
• Copyright Page
• Contents
• Introduction
• One
• Two
• Three
• Four
• Acknowledgments
• About the Author