COWGIRL
“He had a dick
like a horse,”
she said, speaking
of her last lover. “It
was way too big.”
“I thought the bigger the
better?” I said.
“Well,” she
sighed, “up to
a point,
but yours is
much better, much more
suitable.”
“Great,” I said. “What
luck.”
We were lying
in bed, naked
without blankets.
“Let’s change
the subject,
ok?”
But she didn’t
seem to hear me. Her body
was there
but her mind was
somewhere else.
Probably
at the fucking
rodeo.
AFTER TOO MANY BLOODY MARYS
The cut
on my dick
is in the shape
of a cross.
My girlfriend
has devout
teeth
white
strong
clean
but not
without guilt.
These two poems of Mather Schneider’s have a way of making a reader understand that they are not alone in coming to grips with what passes for love and romance. These works aren’t a result of some cookbook process but are more akin to the sort of histories that we all have or have had but felt compelled to keep to ourselves. Whether or not it’s to do with embarrassment or shame, I don’t know but we don’t seem to be anywhere near as candid as Mr. Schneider. He does it for us and in a way that seems as if he’s been a fly on our own wall.
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