Ada Limón, from “The Hurting Kind,” in The Hurting Kind
[text ID: 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 the 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.]
