by Adrienne Rich<\/p>\n
Song<\/strong><\/p>\n by\u00a0Adrienne\u00a0Rich<\/p>\n You’re wondering if I’m lonely: You want to ask, am I lonely? If I’m lonely If I’m lonely –Read at St. Lydia’s on September 5th and 6th, 2013<\/em><\/p>\n <\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":" by Adrienne Rich Song by\u00a0Adrienne\u00a0Rich You’re wondering if I’m lonely: OK then, yes, I’m lonely as a plane rides lonely and level on its radio beam, aiming across the Rockies for the blue-strung aisles of an airfield on the ocean. You want to ask, am I lonely? Well, of course, lonely as a woman driving […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":3,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":[],"categories":[9],"tags":[],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/stlydiasliturgy.org\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/2513"}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/stlydiasliturgy.org\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/stlydiasliturgy.org\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/stlydiasliturgy.org\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/3"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/stlydiasliturgy.org\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=2513"}],"version-history":[{"count":1,"href":"https:\/\/stlydiasliturgy.org\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/2513\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":2514,"href":"https:\/\/stlydiasliturgy.org\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/2513\/revisions\/2514"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/stlydiasliturgy.org\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=2513"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/stlydiasliturgy.org\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=2513"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/stlydiasliturgy.org\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=2513"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}
\nOK then, yes, I’m lonely
\nas a plane rides lonely and level
\non its radio beam, aiming
\nacross the Rockies
\nfor the blue-strung aisles
\nof an airfield on the ocean.<\/p>\n
\nWell, of course, lonely
\nas a woman driving across country
\nday after day, leaving behind
\nmile after mile
\nlittle towns she might have stopped
\nand lived and died in, lonely<\/p>\n
\nit must be the loneliness
\nof waking first, of breathing
\ndawns’ first cold breath on the city
\nof being the one awake
\nin a house wrapped in sleep<\/p>\n
\nit’s with the rowboat ice-fast on the shore
\nin the last red light of the year
\nthat knows what it is, that knows it’s neither
\nice nor mud nor winter light
\nbut wood, with a gift for burning<\/p>\n