Don Farrell
Summer 2025 | Poetry
just the opening of a door
with my right hand i grabbed her
two front hooves, dragged her to the ditch.
my palm and fingers, stained brown,
smelled of her intestines. i wiped off what i could
in the grass and sand and kept that hand
away from my body.
held the phone to my left ear, with you
explaining how your brother-in-law had been
arrested...the fbi involved, something sexual.
i suggested you call, not text, to let him know
you love him. you said
your sister-in-law had seen the same car
parked for days in the same spot...finally,
she knocked on their window,
asked an agent what was he
doing...investigating a crime.
a few hours later, he rang
their bell.
at home, i entered through the garage,
dogs wagging at the deck door. i washed her sourness
from my fingers, opened the slider
to let them in...one step toward me,
they stopped dead, lowered their heads...stood nosing
the air, not rushing in, slowly
closer, sniffing my knees, my feet,
my shorts as if i were a stranger.
Don Farrell lives in Cambridge, MN with 3 sons, and other critters where land transitions from forest to prairie. He holds a monthly open mic at The ARC Retreat Center in Stanchfield, MN and a bi-weekly zoom poetry critique group. He has a full length book accepted for publication by Fernwood Press. He has poems in Bodega Magazine, Thimble Literary Magazine, Exist Otherwise, Shoegaze Literary, Brushfire Literary Journal, Five Fleas, The Orchard Poetry Journal, Suisun Valley Review, Men Matters Journal, Willows Wept Review, Harrow House Journal, Mason Jar Press, New Square, FarmGirl Press, and Indelible Literary and Arts Journal. He hopes to leave this planet without getting what he deserves.