when, after ten years, the two of us were no longer alone
and a new man entered my life, took your seat
in the front of my car, you gnawed a seatbelt to shreds
in the backseat, freely expressing your disgust.
he and I thought you were sick, but it was love sickness,
slowly, you allowed him to play with you,
granted him a ball, sometimes one of your soft toys;
you tolerated his presence at our table, if only for morsels,
traded seats without a whimper,
wagged your tail, if only briefly, upon his arrival at our door,
until one day, we both learned to trust him.
Lisa Reily is a former literacy consultant, dance director and teacher from Australia. Her poetry has been published in several journals, such as Amaryllis, London Grip, The High Window, Panoplyzine, Channel Magazine, The Fenland Reed, as well as Foxglove Journal. You can find out more at lisareily.wordpress.com.