Sometimes, he drowns.
        
        Sometimes, we drown together.

​

Letting the thought of how much pressure is put on women to have a child sit in your mind makes the act of drowning even more severe. What seems like a poem about possibility contained in dreams becomes more of a nightmare which allows Limón’s sense of carrying to expand almost immediately.

   

Although Limón employs various forms, the most powerful moments seem to come in these stichic lines: the contained nature of these lines adds to the stream of consciousness feeling which is integral to these poems. At the end of “The Raincoat,” an act of reshaping memory is present:

 

        …I thought, my whole life I’ve been under her
        

        raincoat thinking it was somehow a marvel
        

        that I never got wet.

 

​By giving a brief example of how her mother protected her, Limón can move into meditations on what she could be protecting. Whether it be a child, animals, or herself is all up for debate. There are instances throughout the book where Limón is caught in a whirlwind of connections. In one poem she will feel a kinship with the dog on a leash in its search for love on a walk and then identify her shadow with the weeds in the next poem. The most intriguing aspect of these threads is that Limón never explicitly defines the person, object, or essence she is carrying. In effect, she is protecting all matters of life as the moment arises.

 

Despite strong moments taking place in these contained poems, it speaks volumes that these same impressions are present when white space is employed. Both techniques are a testament to Limón’s use of quick diction. In “On a Lamppost Long Ago,” Limón presents a vivid example of this intertwining of love, language, and sickness:

​

        There are too many things to hold in the palm of the brain
        

        Your father with Alzheimer’s uses the word thing to describe
        

        many different nouns and we guess the word he means.
        

        When we get it right, he nods as if it’s obvious.

 

Limón is speaking from a position of personal experience but does so in a way that this interaction takes on a universal quality. The white space in between the varying line lengths also enhances the gaps associated with communication. As her thoughts appear to expand, the lines grow longer as well.

  

The notion of bearing children is a clear underlying force throughout this collection. Through these pages the reader can pinpoint specific areas in Limón’s journey and identify with them. Limón also provides exemplary examples of executing recollections of personal encounters in a poem. One way she does so is by moving through the exterior to a kind of internal monologue. In “Mastering” the reader is able to witness the true power of words:

​

        I want him to notice what he said, how a woman might feel agony,
    

        emptiness, how he’s lucky it’s me he said it to because I won’t
    

        vaporize him.
 

There is no manual on how to handle the topic of having children, but Limón is able to master it in this moment. This poem resonates with the reader because it is a realization of how words can impact your sense of living. Limón presents this interaction to expose the ways loss and anguish can manifest themselves.

  

This book does not arrive at a resolution for dealing with fertility, loss, or death and it never intended to. These poems are about navigating life as it uncoils before you and discovering that role through your connection to the Earth. A connection to things that thrive, are temporary, and can only be expressed on the page. Throughout it all Limón maintains a spirit of survival even when faced with destruction around every corner:

                       

        …Funny thing about grief, its hold
        

        is so bright and determined like a flame,
        

        like something almost worth living for.

 

The Carrying reminds us that grief will reignite but that doesn’t mean you can’t survive the heat.