"The Raincoat," by Ada Limón

Let's gather and explore sounds and rhyming in this poem.

Hello and welcome to this inaugural post of Gathering! The goal of this newsletter is to create a community centered on reading and learning about poetry. Reading poetry can be daunting, especially alone, especially not knowing where to start. In each letter to you, there will be a poem that I hope you take the time to read—enjoy it, get frustrated with it, read it once or more if you feel moved to do so. Then, I will write to you about the poem, what I noticed, and what you may look out for in future Gatherings.

It is drizzling outside in Boston as I write this, so it only feels right to start this newsletter with the poem “The Raincoat” from recently inaugurated US Poet Laureate, Ada Limón.

The Raincoat
by Ada Limón

When the doctor suggested surgery
and a brace for all my youngest years,
my parents scrambled to take me
to massage therapy, deep tissue work,
osteopathy, and soon my crooked spine
unspooled a bit, I could breathe again,
and move more in a body unclouded
by pain. My mom would tell me to sing
songs to her the whole forty-five minute
drive to Middle Two Rock Road and forty-
five minutes back from physical therapy.
She’d say, even my voice sounded unfettered
by my spine afterward. So I sang and sang,
because I thought she liked it. I never
asked her what she gave up to drive me,
or how her day was before this chore. Today,
at her age, I was driving myself home from yet
another spine appointment, singing along
to some maudlin but solid song on the radio,
and I saw a mom take her raincoat off
and give it to her young daughter when
a storm took over the afternoon. My god,
I thought, my whole life I’ve been under her
raincoat thinking it was somehow a marvel
that I never got wet.

From The Carrying (Milkweed Editions, 2018) by Ada Limón.

When you start reading this poem, you might think that it’s going to be about rain (based on the title) and the narrator’s spine. But Limón takes us on a trip somewhere unexpected. We sit in the car with the narrator and her mother, and we take a collective breath as the narrator’s spine uncoils and she can sing without pain; we sit in on this routine. We are always moving. What we don’t realize until halfway through, is how difficult this must have been for the narrator’s mother. I love how Limón ends this poem. The narrator has a moment of stillness when she is driving as an adult after a spine appointment. It is only in this brief stillness when the narrator sees a mother and child and the passing of a raincoat that the narrator is able to have her revelation.

Why does this poem work so well? Let’s dive a little deeper.

I don’t know about you, but right from the beginning I can hear and feel the tension in this poem. The opening lines make me want to clench my teeth and shoulders; Limón uses abrasive language like “brace” and “crooked.” Say them out loud—they come out harsh. The words mirror the severity of the narrator’s condition. They make the opening lines choppy—you keep having to stop before reading or saying the next word. Try saying this line out loud: “deep tissue work.” It isn’t smooth.

Even though it’s tense, the opening is playful. Listen to the music of those beginning lines, the subtle rhyming: “my parents scrambled to take me / to massage therapy, deep tissue work / osteopathy.” The repetition of the ee sound is subtle—blink and you’ll miss it. But the rhyming is important for the opening of the poem. It makes the beginning almost jovial, like a child is talking to you about their day—everything is so exciting. I can hear a young Ada Limón squealing with joy. Towards the end of the poem, Limón uses this same effect, but to show that she has aged: “singing along / to some maudlin but solid song on the radio, / and I saw a mom.” She substitutes the ee sound with the aw sound in these closing lines. The aw sound takes longer, it comes from deeper in the chest, and makes the narrator sound older. In a poem where Limón is constantly moving (most of this poem takes place in a car!), this internal rhyming grounds me, and makes me slow down before the poem ends. Perhaps Limón is trying to invoke the rhyming of our childhood nursery rhymes, to make us think of our mothers, too.

How about that ending? The rhythm of the poem stays consistent throughout; each line is about 10 syllables and sounds conversational. It’s only at the end that we—both the reader and the narrator—understand the sacrifice of the mother, and the unspoken gratitude of the narrator. These last lines stun me every time I read this poem: “My god, / I thought, my whole life I’ve been under her / raincoat thinking it was somehow a marvel / that I never got wet.” I can feel the cut off at the end, the white space, where you would expect more words to be. The last line sits with me because of the abrupt change in rhythm, the sudden ending.

I think that writing a poem about parents is difficult because it can become overly sentimental. Limón balances the sentimental parts at the end with the grounding details about her illness and her singing in the beginning and middle. Always in the background is her mother scrambling and then driving her day after day. What a beautiful way to write about realizing something that has been in front of your face your entire life. What a beautiful way to appreciate a mother. This poem breaks my heart and fills me with hope.

If you are interested in hearing more from Ada Limón… check out some of her poetry or listen to her poetry podcast.

If you have thoughts or questions about this poem… let us know in the comments below.

If you are interested in writing poetry… try this prompt based on this poem. Write about a drive you’ve taken and what you saw. What did it mean to you? Can you try incorporating rhyming in the lines of your poem?