Glass Poetry Press

Volume Four Issue One

Susan Alkaitis


He paints a pastoral scene over them as she watches, back against the screen stroking the panting dog, pulpy thrush breath against her cheek. In this heat, dog and woman watch him through the threshold as he covers the canvas green. The dog goes for water, checks the foxhole then sleeps in the grass back against the door, as close as his body can get. She feels she's swallowed paint. His work is sloppy — a raised outline of them lingers now in his new field thrashed with young stalks. The dog sleeps outside in the dark. He is unmoved.