BITCH

I was under your queen, you knew I was

hiding, I was    peeking between

four legs, the floor, your   

too-short organza

bedskirt.    You knew I was so why

did you tell your wife

get on your hands and knees? Unless

that’s just what you say

when she comes home 

earlier than you expect    and she mustn’t 

musn’t suspect. 

What noises you make!

And I hiding. And here I 

had thought my 

my heart your bad dog.

I’M NOT SO HOT THAT I’M NOT

I’m not so hot that I’m not 

susceptible to your buckets of

backwashed hummingbird venom 

you call swich licour but listen

if ever it seems I’ve mastered my impulses

it’ll be because I’ve lost them. 

GOOD FOR US 

Then they made food that tasted 

good for us, too. 

But it didn’t make us feel good 

after having and had

no other virtue

than a disposable voluptuousness. 

I lived in my car and my body

assumed its vibrations. 

I had it bad for you, never having

more of you

than what I could close my mouth around. 

And summer was up the hill some, 

its icon an orange 

cornmeal sphere puffed-up. 

I swore you were trouble.

I cursed you, I couldn’t 

get full. 

Chloe Bliss Snyder is a poet from upstate New York who now writes in Idaho, where she studies and teaches poetry at Boise State University. Her chapbook Ekho and Narkissos was published by the pamphlet series The Swan and its recording can be heard on PennSound. Her most recent work is available or forthcoming in Antiphony, The Chicago Review, Luigi Ten Co, Capgras, and Copenhagen.