the swab of twilight rusts the room, my finger
swimming the light pooled on your back
connecting moles and scars into Aquila and Cassiopeia
I wonder how you have not left me

travelling the crossways of your limbs
I search for answers
bed on your bones, nerves
stake a tent, cut down trees for firewood
forage the hillside of your mind
find papery figs curled like snails against your thighs

here I collect my needs, my faults, the rain
drain it all through the rivulets of your veins
drink seawater and blood
filtering through your limestone marrow and back into mine

you yawn
and I enter the cave of your heart, with a flickering light
find parietal art, depictions that are indecipherable to me
there is no way to crawl through you

not a map furled between ribs
or instructions
on how to love or on how to rebuild ruins
these ruins you’ve built

on my shores
a thousand tiny sandcastles
wrecked under my foot

Virginia Farrell is a writer and poet living in Montreal, Canada, where she’s earning her BA in creative writing, raising her four children, and working on her fifth novel. Her poems have been published in Red Fez, Yellow Chair Review and Clear Poetry.

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