{"id":594,"date":"2011-03-03T12:06:33","date_gmt":"2011-03-03T17:06:33","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/stlydias.org\/blog\/?p=594"},"modified":"2011-03-03T12:06:33","modified_gmt":"2011-03-03T17:06:33","slug":"tierra-del-fuego","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/stlydiasliturgy.org\/blog\/2011\/03\/tierra-del-fuego\/","title":{"rendered":"Tierra del Fuego"},"content":{"rendered":"<p>by Adam Zagajewski<\/p>\n<p>You who see our homes at night<br \/>\nand the frail walls of our conscience,<br \/>\nyou who hear our conversations<br \/>\ndroning on like sewing machines<br \/>\n\u2014save me, tear me from sleep,<br \/>\nfrom amnesia.<\/p>\n<p>Why is childhood\u2014oh, tinfoil treasures,<br \/>\noh, the rustling of lead, lovely and foreboding\u2014<br \/>\nour only origin, our only longing?<br \/>\nWhy is manhood, which takes the place of ripeness,<br \/>\nan endless highway,<br \/>\nSahara yellow?<\/p>\n<p>After all, you know there are days<br \/>\nwhen even thirst runs dry<br \/>\nand prayer&#8217;s lips harden.<\/p>\n<p>Sometimes the sun&#8217;s coin dims<br \/>\nand life shrinks so small<br \/>\nthat you could tuck it<br \/>\nin the blue gloves of the Gypsy<br \/>\nwho predicts the future<br \/>\nfor seven generations back<\/p>\n<p>and then in some other little town<br \/>\nin the south a charlatan<br \/>\ndecides to destroy you,<br \/>\nme, and himself.<\/p>\n<p>You who see the whites of our eyes,<br \/>\nyou who hide like a bullfinch<br \/>\nin the rowans,<br \/>\nlike a falcon<br \/>\nin the clouds&#8217; warm stockings<\/p>\n<p>\u2014open the boxes full of song,<br \/>\nopen the blood that pulses in aortas<br \/>\nof animals and stones,<br \/>\nlight lanterns in black gardens.<\/p>\n<p>Nameless, unseen, silent,<br \/>\nsave me from anesthesia,<br \/>\ntake me to Tierra del Fuego,<br \/>\ntake me where the rivers<br \/>\nflow straight up, horizontal rivers<br \/>\nflowing up and down.<\/p>\n<p>&#8211;<em>Read at St. Lydia&#8217;s on February 13<\/em>, 2011<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"<p>by Adam Zagajewski You who see our homes at night and the frail walls of our conscience, you who hear our conversations droning on like sewing machines \u2014save me, tear me from sleep, from amnesia. Why is childhood\u2014oh, tinfoil treasures, oh, the rustling of lead, lovely and foreboding\u2014 our only origin, our only longing? Why [&hellip;]<\/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\/594"}],"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=594"}],"version-history":[{"count":1,"href":"https:\/\/stlydiasliturgy.org\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/594\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":595,"href":"https:\/\/stlydiasliturgy.org\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/594\/revisions\/595"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/stlydiasliturgy.org\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=594"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/stlydiasliturgy.org\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=594"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/stlydiasliturgy.org\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=594"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}