At an Ada Limón Poetry Reading

I walked into the theater with no expectations. No, that’s not true. My expectations hovered near zero.  

I was in a theater NOT seeing a play. That rarely happens. 

Good Lord. A poetry reading – haven’t done that since college. But I’d committed to going, so I’d follow through. Like taking medicine. That’s, at least, something. 

I knew the space; I’d seen plays in it often. Even worked there. But a reading?! How dull would this be? No lights, set or props. Just a chair and side-table. With luck, it wouldn’t last long. Shorter than theater. Maybe? With luck?! 

She entered. Ada Limón. Our poet laureate. Who knew? Her name was new to me. Ada Limón. 

She was lovely. Long shining dark hair. Well-cut brown jacket. Brown jeans. Stylish and sexy. 

Wait... this was a poet?! Ada Limón looked like an actress. 

She would read thirteen poems. She promised “only thirteen.” We could count them, she soothed us – that way, feel more “in control.” 

Near the end of one poem, my throat knotted up. You know the feeling? It happened again. Then several more times. It was as she reached the last – or next-to-the-last – word that the tears bubbled up. What was happening? 

It had been a while…

How did it work? It was different from theater. 

Meaning mounted, then bubbled up into feeling. 

A word – a mere word tipped the balance. 

She answered questions during the talkback. Somewhere in there she said, “I trust poetry.” Then, “I trust poetry more than a novel.” What?

To cap it all off, she said (in a mysterious way while she was laughing). “I trust poetry more than a paragraph!” 

What?! What was she meaning? 

I have an inkling. But only just that. 

Wait... maybe I get it. Just maybe. 

Do you?