In the Arms of Poetry: A Deep Dive Into Ada Limón’s 'The Carrying'
By Audrey Treon
I am a novice poetry reader. I love poetry, but the thought constantly plagues me that I do not truly understand what is really being said. Admittedly, I was slightly apprehensive as I recently looked in the poetry section of my faborite used bookstore. Yet, I walked out $8 poorer with Ada Limón’s The Carrying.
Described with words such as “tender,” “dazzling,” and “raw,” I had high hopes for this book. It exceeded my expectations. Every poem has an indescribable essence to it; these pages have been touched by magic. The poems explores so many topics — motherhood, fertility, climate change, and so much more — without feeling clustered or sporadic. Limón’s ability to connect everything is admirable. I think it is more so an ability to see a little bit of everything in everything — where there is a climate crisis, there are mothers and women being harmed; where there is infertility, there is a culture of quietly misogynist and all assuming rhetoric; where there are painfully human issues, there are words. Limón’s work extends far beyond the agonies that accompany human existence; she exists within the nuances, the cracks of humanity. These poems brought tears to my eyes, a smile to my face, and everything in between.
“Perhaps the truth is every song of this country/ has an unsung third stanza, something brutal/ snaking underneath us as we blindly sing/ the high notes with a beer sloshing in the stands hoping our team wins” (The Carrying, “A New National Anthem,” page 56). I read that poem on Thursday, March 27th, 2025. A few hours later, I read the following headline: “Gaza’s stolen childhood. Who were the thousands of children Israel killed?” by Mohamed A. Hussein and Mohammed Haddad for Al Jazeera. It is strange to be an American, especially now. I compartmentalize the horrors committed by my fellow humans, simply so I can get through my day. Yet those experiencing said horrors do not have the luxury of separation. Something brutal does snake underneath Americans as we move through life. As we sing the national anthem, standing tall in the bleachers with hats to our hearts, another reality is felt, a reality that was violently created by the hands of our own kind. The poem ends by saying, “...the song says my bones are your bones, and your bones are my bones, and isn’t that enough?” It is all too easy to write everything off and resign oneself to the fact that apparently that is not enough, not for some people. But Limón’s poetry pushes the reader not to stop there, not roll over and accept the atrocities of our world. This is not a forceful nor a malignant push — it is a tender and benevolent push, one built on the foundation of care.
The poem “What I Didn’t Know Before” is the one that stuck out to me the most, which is saying something considering how much I loved every last one. But this one intimately, carefully, and truthfully showcased what love can be. “What was between us wasn’t a fragile thing to be coddled, cooed over. It came out fully formed, ready to run.” She compares the birth of love to the birth of a horse: “...was how horses simply give birth to other horses. Not a baby by any means, not a creature of liminal spaces, but already a four-legged beast hellbent on walking, scrambling after the other. A horse gives way to another horse, and then suddenly there are two horses, just like that. That’s how I loved you.” This poem beautifully illustrates how love, both its creation and nurturing, requires bravery — a courageous stride towards life and passion.
In reading this book, I felt transported to the rolling fields of Kentucky, where horses run wildly and the pains of daily life still manage to reach you, where love permeates your heart and mind. I believe this book found me at the exact right time. As the definition of what it means to be an American is shattering, as my neighbors and I live in fear of what is to come, as the world feels so dark there’s no point in looking for the light switch, Limón had the guts to do what was needed — she embraced empathy, love, and decency. Despite its publication in 2018, the parallels are still being drawn, seven years later — this body of work will go down in history. I’m still a novice poetry reader, maybe I didn’t understand every nuance or every polysemic word. But I know I understood the emotion innate to these poems. After all, isn’t that what poetry is supposed to be? Ada Limón’s The Carrying was a feast for the senses and heart.
