{"id":28843,"date":"2016-08-14T08:51:55","date_gmt":"2016-08-14T12:51:55","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/thepoetrymarathon.com\/blog\/?p=28843"},"modified":"2016-08-14T08:51:55","modified_gmt":"2016-08-14T12:51:55","slug":"home-welcome","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/thepoetrymarathon.com\/blog\/2016\/08\/home-welcome\/","title":{"rendered":"home, welcome"},"content":{"rendered":"<p>home, welcome<\/p>\n<p>i burn chamomile<br \/>\nin our den,<br \/>\nlull the embers<br \/>\nwith the heel of my thumb,<br \/>\nsniff the sullen warmth,<br \/>\nits soft tickle<br \/>\nlike you<br \/>\nwalking in, fingers on my shoulder,<br \/>\nto read another book.<br \/>\nthe sun quells brightness,<br \/>\nreverts us to lamps.<br \/>\nbreathless, we are quiet.<br \/>\nI think of the Davenport home<br \/>\n&amp; how we searched the chain-linked mile<br \/>\nof pond for an alligator never found, or named.<br \/>\ni put your necklace back on when we left Miami.<br \/>\n Miami, grey as before, &amp; still no laughter,<br \/>\nthat same desire for a colder warm<br \/>\nin what you call<br \/>\nmy heart. i don&#8217;t know<br \/>\nwhat it is. the Atlantic follows,<br \/>\nits bulbous yearning for us<br \/>\nto make waves, ruffle the salt-mist<br \/>\nwhere we were sandwiched between<br \/>\ntwo skies, fishing from our kayaks.<br \/>\n i will never get used to the light.<br \/>\nhome is my ever-barefoot sidewalk &amp;<br \/>\nthe blister built callouses<br \/>\ni indulge in. i make myself<br \/>\nhere &amp; there. Detroit makes itself<br \/>\nbigger for us to excuse<br \/>\nclaustrophobia. Cincinatti is an<br \/>\ninhale of rusted sweat, exhale<br \/>\nof brick demeanor.<br \/>\ni read you in glances: you haven&#8217;t moved.<br \/>\nthe page is different every time.<br \/>\ni try not to shift<br \/>\nunless you do,<br \/>\nfrom where you want<br \/>\nto be. <\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"<p>home, welcome i burn chamomile in our den, lull the embers with the heel of my thumb, sniff the sullen warmth, its soft tickle like you walking in, fingers on my shoulder, to read another book. the sun quells brightness, reverts us to lamps. breathless,&#8230;<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":717,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[13],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-28843","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-miscellaneous"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/thepoetrymarathon.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/28843","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\/717"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/thepoetrymarathon.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=28843"}],"version-history":[{"count":1,"href":"https:\/\/thepoetrymarathon.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/28843\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":28852,"href":"https:\/\/thepoetrymarathon.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/28843\/revisions\/28852"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/thepoetrymarathon.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=28843"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/thepoetrymarathon.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=28843"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/thepoetrymarathon.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=28843"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}