I read this poem last summer, ripped it out of The New Yorker and put it in a drawer for safekeeping. While painting the drawer today I rediscovered it, but some of these lines never fully drifted out of my memory. It is the kind of poem that stays and stays. In some ways hard to follow and in others, crystal clear. My kinda poem. And what a fabulous name for a poet, if I do say so myself...
"Crush" by Ada Limon
Maybe my limbs are made
mostly for decoration,
like the way I feel about
persimmons. You can’t
really eat them. Or you
wouldn’t want to. If you grab
the soft skin with your fist
it somehow feels funny,
like you’ve been here
before and uncomfortable,
too, like you’d rather
squish it between your teeth
impatiently, before spitting
the soft parts back up
to linger on the tongue like
burnt sugar or guilt.
For starters, it was all
an accident, you cut
the right branch
and a sort of light
woke up underneath,
and the inedible fruit
grew dark and needy.
Think crucial hanging.
Think crayon orange.
There is one low, leaning
heart-shaped globe left
and dearest, can you
tell, I am trying
to love you less.
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