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e333mily 's review for:
The Hurting Kind
by Ada Limón
My cat is at the animal hospital right now so I picked up a sad book of poetry because of course. This collection is so devastating and so clarifying. Each poem feels like a sieve through murky water, picking up all the dirt and the grime and the yuckiness so we can look at it, and also at what lies beyond it. I am smiling and nodding and crying and underlining and holding my breath, letting out a big sigh. I feel as though Ada has taken my hand in hers and said yes, there is hurt, and yes, there is hope. And today I really needed that.
“Before my grandfather died, I asked him what sort
of horse he had growing up. He said,
Just a horse. My horse, with such a tenderness it
rubbed the bones in my ribs all wrong.
I have always been too sensitive, a weeper
from a long line of weepers.
I am the hurting kind. I keep searching for proof.”
“Before my grandfather died, I asked him what sort
of horse he had growing up. He said,
Just a horse. My horse, with such a tenderness it
rubbed the bones in my ribs all wrong.
I have always been too sensitive, a weeper
from a long line of weepers.
I am the hurting kind. I keep searching for proof.”