- #Raymond carver errand the hotel valet cracked#
- #Raymond carver errand the hotel valet skin#
- #Raymond carver errand the hotel valet series#
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I know you only invited me in for a coffee, but Natalie Shaw Commended, National Poetry Competition 2018.Saturday Collection Duty Lia Brooks Commended, National Poetry Competition 2018.Do not indulge indigo Katie Griffiths 2nd Prize, National Poetry Competition 2018.The posh mums are boxing in the square Wayne Holloway-Smith 1st Prize, National Poetry Competition 2018.
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Hotel Grief Cheryl Moskowitz Commended, National Poetry Competition 2019.Granddaughter Moves In Ann Pelletier-Topping Second prize, National Poetry Competition 2019.MOONDADDY Charlotte Knight Commended, National Poetry Competition 2019.Where Dedushka Comes From Gerald Smith Commended, National Poetry Competition 2019.
#Raymond carver errand the hotel valet series#
#Raymond carver errand the hotel valet skin#
Warm goose eggs close to skin so not to break them: Unblemished sky ripples inside the tin bucket,Ĭradled in my arms the way I used to hold On re-imagined hooves, pull the chain, smell wet rust. Ghosts of lilac, pear, and quince in the sun-bitten yard I step
#Raymond carver errand the hotel valet cracked#
No rose bushes climbing to window sills, outside.Īnd here, our water well, a vase of cracked cement. Or old furniture with sculpted flowers on walnut wood. Into still-remaining rooms no sewing machine, Nests big as cupped hands, twigsĪnd straw. ‘No, the sparrows have nested under eaves, look ‘My grandparents’ souls’ I think aloud, but my cousin says: We sit down to eat on the porch when two sparrowsĬome flying in circles over the table, low and fast, happily! With the time my two feet used to fit inside one hoof. I am searching for prints of mare’s hooves in our yardīetween stable and kitchen window, now gone
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On through hot dust of open plane, to my village:Īsks for money, says he used to work for us. People sit on wooden benches in front of their houses, Outside gas stations, shops, streets, in parking lots.įarther, into wilderness, we slow down where horseĪnd foal walk home to the clay hut by themselves,Ĭows cross roads in evenings alone, bells clinking. Of mutilated angels, circle around us on hill paths, Stray dogs howl through nights like choirs Whispering, glassy-eyed, throats parched from heat. They were shot against a wall in Christmas snow. For proper burial it is twenty years since