stdClass Object
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[ID] => 22461
[post_author] => 6
[post_date] => 2021-12-14 14:25:08
[post_date_gmt] => 2021-12-14 14:25:08
[post_content] =>
On a warm Sunday afternoon,
on her 45th birthday, to be exact,
she kissed one of the walls
of our family house in Quilmes
and slowly walked out
(someone was aiding her)
through the entrance door
to the car parked outside,
to be taken away from us,
to a whitewashed hospital
on the leafy Avenida Caseros,
from which she would never
come back and as she was leaving
she turned around and said to us,
small children: Recen por mí.
And we did, mother. We did.
[post_title] => A Prayer
[post_excerpt] =>
[post_status] => publish
[comment_status] => closed
[ping_status] => closed
[post_password] =>
[post_name] => a-prayer
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[post_modified] => 2022-06-13 15:36:34
[post_modified_gmt] => 2022-06-13 15:36:34
[post_content_filtered] =>
[post_parent] => 0
[guid] => https://poems.poetrysociety.org.uk/?post_type=poems&p=22461
[menu_order] => 0
[post_type] => poems
[post_mime_type] =>
[comment_count] => 0
[filter] => raw
[meta_data] => stdClass Object
(
[wpcf-published-in] =>
[wpcf-date-published] =>
[wpcf-summary-description] =>
[wpcf-rights-information] =>
[wpcf-poem-award] =>
[wpcf_pr_belongs] =>
)
[poet_data] => stdClass Object
(
[ID] => 22470
[forename] =>
[surname] =>
[title] => Leo Boix
[slug] => leo-boix
[content] =>
Leo Boix is a British Latinx poet and translator. His debut English collection, Ballad of a Happy Immigrant (Chatto & Windus, 2021), was awarded the Poetry Book Society Wild Card Choice. Boix is the recipient of the Bart Wolffe Poetry Prize and the Keats-Shelley Prize.
)
)
stdClass Object
(
[ID] => 22470
[forename] =>
[surname] =>
[title] => Leo Boix
[slug] => leo-boix
[content] =>
Leo Boix is a British Latinx poet and translator. His debut English collection, Ballad of a Happy Immigrant (Chatto & Windus, 2021), was awarded the Poetry Book Society Wild Card Choice. Boix is the recipient of the Bart Wolffe Poetry Prize and the Keats-Shelley Prize.
)
On a warm Sunday afternoon,
on her 45th birthday, to be exact,
she kissed one of the walls
of our family house in Quilmes
and slowly walked out
(someone was aiding her)
through the entrance door
to the car parked outside,
to be taken away from us,
to a whitewashed hospital
on the leafy Avenida Caseros,
from which she would never
come back and as she was leaving
she turned around and said to us,
small children: Recen por mí.
And we did, mother. We did.