Samantha Isasi
Dog of the Divorce
I remove the splinter from her front paw with sharp tweezers. The small stake is curved and crooked. We share custody of the hurt. Later I will feed her pieces of bacon and she will favor her right side. There is no blame. She looks at me with a steady gaze. I run my hand down her length. We lie in bed, flipping through the T.V. Channels. Is there anything else I can do for you? The dog does not have any answers for me. What if I should be more worried? There is nothing to do; it is almost midnight. My ex is somewhere across town, unaware. We used to lie here together, the dog stretched across our legs. If I called him now, we would just argue. It's not his day to care. Here next to me the dog breathes a steady ache. We lie in a blue T.V. haze, surreal light, that reminds me of paintings, of the people who loved Gertrude Stein. She leans her head against my knee, silent in the glare.
Samantha Isasi has recently relocated to Melbourne, Florida, where she teaches in the Communications Department at Brevard Community College. Her poetry has appeared in publications such as Freefall, The Sulphur River Literary Review, and The Long Island Quarterly.
