D______ was glamorous, P____ was silly
\nand one was my mother,
\nwho hovered between
\nD’s edginess and
\nP’s harmlessness.<\/p>\n
But, she was still I was in my teens She had been truant one day My mother cried and begged Only a year or two She probably thought, as D______ was glamorous, P____ was silly and one was my mother, who hovered between D’s edginess and P’s harmlessness. But, she was still the one who spent a year at a school for wayward girls. I was in my teens and not on any troublemaking…<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":59,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[7],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-117298","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-marathon-poem"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/thepoetrymarathon.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/117298","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\/59"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/thepoetrymarathon.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=117298"}],"version-history":[{"count":2,"href":"https:\/\/thepoetrymarathon.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/117298\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":117587,"href":"https:\/\/thepoetrymarathon.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/117298\/revisions\/117587"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/thepoetrymarathon.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=117298"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/thepoetrymarathon.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=117298"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/thepoetrymarathon.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=117298"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}
\nthe one
\nwho spent a year
\nat a school
\nfor wayward<\/em> girls.<\/p>\n
\nand not on any troublemaking path
\nwhen she told me the story of her youth.<\/p>\n
\npast the limit,
\nand even though she hadn’t done anything
\nthat she was caught for, a marked vehicle
\nwas waiting for her
\nwhen she got home
\nthat night.<\/p>\n
\nmy grandmother, a stoic woman
\nfrom rural Missouri,
\nwho told her
\nshe had to follow the guards
\nif she wanted to ever be allowed
\nto come home.<\/p>\n
\nafter she was released,
\nmy mother, after graduation,
\nfound a part-time job
\nat a photography lab;
\nit was during this time,
\nshe began dating my father.<\/p>\n
\ndid he,
\nshe’d be his golden bird
\nbefore she later grasped
\nthere’s nothing golden
\nin containment.
\nEven if it was of her own volition.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"