{"id":115612,"date":"2022-06-25T19:48:13","date_gmt":"2022-06-25T23:48:13","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/thepoetrymarathon.com\/?p=115612"},"modified":"2022-06-27T10:00:34","modified_gmt":"2022-06-27T14:00:34","slug":"115612","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/thepoetrymarathon.com\/blog\/2022\/06\/115612\/","title":{"rendered":"Hour Eleven   A Sunday Evening in 1970     Mary Pecaut"},"content":{"rendered":"<p><span style=\"font-weight: 400\">Hour Eleven &#8211; \u00a0 A Sunday Evening in 1970\u00a0 \u00a0 Mary Pecaut<\/span><\/p>\n<p>&nbsp;<\/p>\n<p><span style=\"font-weight: 400\">We lay on the gold shag carpet<\/span><\/p>\n<p><span style=\"font-weight: 400\">in our living room\u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 like a jigsaw\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n<p><span style=\"font-weight: 400\">puzzle. Mother lies on her back<\/span><\/p>\n<p><span style=\"font-weight: 400\">next to the piano. Sister rests her head\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n<p><span style=\"font-weight: 400\">on mother&#8217;s belly. And I, in turn,\u00a0 pillow<\/span><\/p>\n<p><span style=\"font-weight: 400\">my head upon my<\/span><\/p>\n<p><span style=\"font-weight: 400\">sister\u2019s tummy.\u00a0 Brother follows suit, plopping<\/span><\/p>\n<p><span style=\"font-weight: 400\">his head upon my stomach.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n<p><span style=\"font-weight: 400\">It doesn\u2019t take much.<\/span><\/p>\n<p><span style=\"font-weight: 400\">Mother starts it all &#8211;<\/span><\/p>\n<p><span style=\"font-weight: 400\">ha.\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n<p><span style=\"font-weight: 400\">ha ha ha.\u00a0\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n<p><span style=\"font-weight: 400\">Ha ha ha ha ha.\u00a0\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n<p><span style=\"font-weight: 400\">HA HA HA HA HA HA HA.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n<p><span style=\"font-weight: 400\">HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA!<\/span><\/p>\n<p><span style=\"font-weight: 400\">HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHHAHAHHAHAHA!<\/span><\/p>\n<p><strong>HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!<\/strong><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"<p>Hour Eleven &#8211; \u00a0 A Sunday Evening in 1970\u00a0 \u00a0 Mary Pecaut &nbsp; We lay on the gold shag carpet in our living room\u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 like a jigsaw\u00a0 puzzle. Mother lies on her back next to the piano. Sister rests her head\u00a0 on mother&#8217;s&#8230;<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1509,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[7],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-115612","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-marathon-poem"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/thepoetrymarathon.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/115612","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/thepoetrymarathon.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/thepoetrymarathon.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/thepoetrymarathon.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/1509"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/thepoetrymarathon.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=115612"}],"version-history":[{"count":4,"href":"https:\/\/thepoetrymarathon.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/115612\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":123809,"href":"https:\/\/thepoetrymarathon.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/115612\/revisions\/123809"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/thepoetrymarathon.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=115612"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/thepoetrymarathon.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=115612"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/thepoetrymarathon.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=115612"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}