Virginia Farrell – three poems

The Little Things

the mattress folds from your body weight
next to mine through the years. It is vanishing
because you now weigh less than me, a wisp

Other people or strangers could do this better, lying next to you
I feel your bones rattling
for someone good to fix them

broken this, busted that, we are always breaking
out a list, a honey-do
for the disappointments that beat

endlessly. Disease is real, fleshy and full
of ectopic blood
unlike a soul or a ghost which both require a belief in magic

but it’s September and everything is dying, like the Bee Balm in our yard, I curl
into the nest of your smell, kiss the salt of our shared memories weeping from your skin
press against the thorns of your spine and roll into your worn-out crevice, sinking low

and the fog hangs even lower. Through it I see
you turning over, facing me, a specter in white underwear, scruffy beard, undone eyes
big belly, smiling

Buddha from all the pills
but still, you are good
at not changing too much for me

in the dim light
of curtains drawn across the afternoon
we manage to find

the little things, the sparks
behind the funny, sad little things
your blue eyes, my blue smile, the blue feeling

when we share the last bowl of cookie ice cream
me spooning it into your mouth and then mine
both of us knowing the sweetness on our tongues is the taste of time ending

The Discovery

the monarchs and the moths feast
in the ditch on milkweed above
burnt grass curling its fingers around
the blue-flake carcass of a car, sunlight and smoke looping

through glass webs, shattered windows holding back
the beating orange and black wings
blood thickens in the shadows
a lone butterfly pauses to rest on a girl’s raw pearlescent bone

impossibly she is breathing
in a way that is not breathing
but more of a floating in and out
when the cops drag

the tin can car up the embankment
peel the girl from her place
painfully her gauzy moans drape
the brilliant sun to sleep

Renoir’s Girl

Let me believe that I am
Renoir’s girl with russet curls
kissing the small of my back
wrists and knees
the brown of my round
eyes turning the colors of
French flowers, lips open, breasts quaking
with my lavender-scented laughter
when I cartwheel and
feed the bumble bees honey-infused Brandy
Renoir asks me to lie down and spread
the Provincial gap between my thighs
and all the beauty tumbles out
the magical white-maned Camargue, small clouds of chouquettes,
Debussy’s Clair De Lune, fat-cheeked babies,
buckets of salted water, silks, and sorrow too when he says
to die is an art

Virginia Farrell is a poet and writer from Winnipeg, Manitoba. For months, deep snow blankets the Canadian prairies and it is the absolute stillness found in such a long winter that provides her with a stage to write. When she isn’t writing, you can find her tobogganing down the banks of the Red River with a toque on her head and her family in tow. To escape the formidable weather, she dreams of, and sometimes travels to, warmer places. There she finds inspiration in ruins, lush overgrowth, cheap wine and a view of the sea that drops from the earth.

Currently, she is working on a novel-length manuscript and, as always, writing poetry. Clear Poetry is the first to publish her poems, and more are due to appear in the forthcoming issue of the Yellow Chair Review.

She tweets @theferalfarrell and her website is at

2 thoughts on “Virginia Farrell – three poems

  1. Imogen Forster October 22, 2015 / 10:03 am

    These are beautiful, moving.

    Sent from my Windows Phone


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