{"id":130,"date":"2008-02-20T14:15:00","date_gmt":"2008-02-20T14:15:00","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/www.fridaynirvana.com\/fiction\/2008\/02\/poetry-for-last-friday.html"},"modified":"2011-06-30T20:42:27","modified_gmt":"2011-06-30T20:42:27","slug":"poetry-for-last-friday","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.fridaynirvana.com\/fiction\/2008\/02\/poetry-for-last-friday.html","title":{"rendered":"Poetry for last Friday"},"content":{"rendered":"<p>From <a href=\"http:\/\/books.guardian.co.uk\/departments\/poetry\/story\/0,,2151023,00.html\">guardian.co.uk<\/a> :<\/p>\n<p><strong>Heart <\/strong><\/p>\n<p>by Margaret Atwood<\/p>\n<p>Some people sell their blood. You sell your heart.<br \/>\nIt was either that or the soul.<br \/>\nThe hard part is getting the damn thing out.<br \/>\nA kind of twisting motion, like shucking an oyster,<br \/>\nyour spine a wrist,<br \/>\nand then, hup! it&#8217;s in your mouth.<br \/>\nYou turn yourself partially inside out<br \/>\nlike a sea anemone coughing a pebble.<br \/>\nThere&#8217;s a broken plop, the racket<br \/>\nof fish guts into a pail,<br \/>\nand there it is, a huge glistening deep-red clot<br \/>\nof the still-alive past, whole on the plate.<\/p>\n<p>It gets passed around. It&#8217;s slippery. It gets dropped,<br \/>\nbut also tasted. Too coarse, says one. Too salty.<br \/>\nToo sour, says another, making a face.<br \/>\nEach one is an instant gourmet,<br \/>\nand you stand listening to all this<br \/>\nin the corner, like a newly hired waiter,<br \/>\nyour diffident, skilful hand on the wound hidden<br \/>\ndeep in your shirt and chest,<br \/>\nshyly, heartless.<\/p>\n<p>\u00b7 From Margaret Atwood&#8217;s The Door, published by Virago<\/p>\n<div class=\"blogger-post-footer\"><img loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" src=\"https:\/\/blogger.googleusercontent.com\/tracker\/11570614-1893465993831049124?l=reviewroom.blogspot.com\" alt=\"\" width=\"1\" height=\"1\" \/><\/div>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"<p>From guardian.co.uk : Heart by Margaret Atwood Some people sell their blood. You sell your heart. It was either that or the soul. The hard part is getting the damn thing out. A kind of twisting motion, like shucking an oyster, your spine a wrist, and then, hup! it&#8217;s in your mouth. You turn yourself [&hellip;]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"rop_custom_images_group":[],"rop_custom_messages_group":[],"rop_publish_now":"initial","rop_publish_now_accounts":{"twitter_17000648_17000648":""},"rop_publish_now_history":[],"rop_publish_now_status":"pending","_uag_custom_page_level_css":"","footnotes":""},"categories":[29,24],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-130","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-poetry","category-recommended"],"aioseo_notices":[],"uagb_featured_image_src":{"full":false,"thumbnail":false,"medium":false,"medium_large":false,"large":false,"1536x1536":false,"2048x2048":false,"post-thumbnail":false,"sow-carousel-default":false},"uagb_author_info":{"display_name":"amodini","author_link":"https:\/\/www.fridaynirvana.com\/fiction\/author\/admin"},"uagb_comment_info":0,"uagb_excerpt":"From guardian.co.uk : Heart by Margaret Atwood Some people sell their blood. You sell your heart. It was either that or the soul. The hard part is getting the damn thing out. A kind of twisting motion, like shucking an oyster, your spine a wrist, and then, hup! it&#8217;s in your mouth. You turn yourself&hellip;","_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.fridaynirvana.com\/fiction\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/130","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.fridaynirvana.com\/fiction\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.fridaynirvana.com\/fiction\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.fridaynirvana.com\/fiction\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.fridaynirvana.com\/fiction\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=130"}],"version-history":[{"count":2,"href":"https:\/\/www.fridaynirvana.com\/fiction\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/130\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":870,"href":"https:\/\/www.fridaynirvana.com\/fiction\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/130\/revisions\/870"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.fridaynirvana.com\/fiction\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=130"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.fridaynirvana.com\/fiction\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=130"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.fridaynirvana.com\/fiction\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=130"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}