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Vincent and Crows, and: I Unload the Dishwasher, and: Carnation

Vincent and Crows, and: I Unload the Dishwasher, and: Carnation Positive, Except When Negative Her name tells of how it was with her. Truth is, sometimes she saw the garbage cans half full, the refrigerator half empty. Truth is, accumulations could only mean downed wires, cases of bottled water a flood, the giant scribbly Kandinsky a bonk on the head, at the least, when it fell. When they looked at her blood, all they found was B. B positive. Each year she looked forward to her brain catching up with her heart. Ann D. Garbett Vincent and Crows He didn't care about crows, he cared about wheat ­ the sweat and bread it stood for, how it rippled under the French sun like muscles in a peasant's back, the waves as yellow as his little house. 127 Alone in the field by the muddy track, he smelled drying grain and linseed oil and felt safe for the first time in weeks. Under the denim sky, his head cleared and he thought of a painting all blue above, yellow below, the paint laid on as thick as cheese on slices from a village loaf. But still the thievish crows came on, twenty or more, their rusty cries flapping up http://www.deepdyve.com/assets/images/DeepDyve-Logo-lg.png Prairie Schooner University of Nebraska Press

Vincent and Crows, and: I Unload the Dishwasher, and: Carnation

Prairie Schooner , Volume 79 (4) – May 18, 2005

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Publisher
University of Nebraska Press
Copyright
Copyright © 2005 by the University of Nebraska Press.
ISSN
1542-426X
Publisher site
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Abstract

Positive, Except When Negative Her name tells of how it was with her. Truth is, sometimes she saw the garbage cans half full, the refrigerator half empty. Truth is, accumulations could only mean downed wires, cases of bottled water a flood, the giant scribbly Kandinsky a bonk on the head, at the least, when it fell. When they looked at her blood, all they found was B. B positive. Each year she looked forward to her brain catching up with her heart. Ann D. Garbett Vincent and Crows He didn't care about crows, he cared about wheat ­ the sweat and bread it stood for, how it rippled under the French sun like muscles in a peasant's back, the waves as yellow as his little house. 127 Alone in the field by the muddy track, he smelled drying grain and linseed oil and felt safe for the first time in weeks. Under the denim sky, his head cleared and he thought of a painting all blue above, yellow below, the paint laid on as thick as cheese on slices from a village loaf. But still the thievish crows came on, twenty or more, their rusty cries flapping up

Journal

Prairie SchoonerUniversity of Nebraska Press

Published: May 18, 2005

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