![]() “Slippery and waddle thieving my tomatoes still / green in the morning’s shade,” writes Limón of a groundhog in her garden, “she is doing what she can to survive. Weepers have discolored skin and haemolacria, which causes blood to drip from their eyes in a tear-like fashion, hence their name. They squat in various abandoned areas throughout Dunwall, such as the Distillery District and the Flooded District, and their numbers increase with chaos. ![]() But The Hurting Kind is filled, above all, with connection and the delight of being in the world. Weepers are sufferers of the rat plague in the last stages of the disease. There are flashes of the pandemic, ghosts whose presence manifests in unexpected memories and the mysterious behavior of pets left behind. And they honor parents, stepparents, and grandparents: the sacrifices made, the separate lives lived, the tendernesses extended to a hurting child the abundance, in retrospect, of having two families.Īlong the way, we glimpse loss. These poems slip through the seasons, teeming with horses and kingfishers and the gleaming eyes of fish. With Limón’s remarkable ability to trace thought, The Hurting Kind explores those questions-incorporating others’ stories and ways of knowing, making surprising turns, and always reaching a place of startling insight. “I am the hurting kind.” What does it mean to be the hurting kind? To be sensitive not only to the world’s pain and joys, but to the meanings that bend in the scrim between the natural world and the human world? To divine the relationships between us all? To perceive ourselves in other beings-and to know that those beings are resolutely their own, that they “do not / care to be seen as symbols”? “I have always been too sensitive, a weeper / from a long line of weepers,” writes Limón. An astonishing collection about interconnectedness-between the human and nonhuman, ancestors and ourselves-from National Book Critics Circle Award winner and National Book Award finalist Ada Limón.
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