Susan Yount

Woman/women you/we are not like/unlike a cow/cattle.
A sort of guzzle under the influence of “The Cow” by Reines.

The same spots are not found on any two cows.
In the presence of everything, woman, you are like a cow.

Cows will return to the barn for milking.
Woman, you have got to goad yourself; you are not unlike a cow.

Father has more than a flink; he owns a herd.
Women, you have got to want to live; you are not like cattle.

A cow started the Chicago fire. It burned for 2 days and 2 nights.

Woman, your house is on fire. You are like a cow.

Cows lay down when it is going to rain.
Women, get on your feet, start walking; you are like cattle.

Cows are the limbs of sacrifice.
Woman, your milk is nectar. You are not unlike a cow.

The first cow licked the first man from a salty block of ice.
The body is a wound with 9 holes; Women, you are cattle.

Sometimes, cows will have the chance to escape and not take it.
Susan, darling, now is your chance, but you—you are a cow.

(oh, fuck me)

Socks of Fire

Never mind that the manager instructed you to wear solid black or navy socks.  Hey little pistol. You'll even forget the four fat fucks at table five. Want to make some extra cash?  You got the round table tonight and in these smokin' socks you'll serve chicken-fried-steak, mashed potatoes and sawmill gravy scintillatingly. Let me be your pepper you salty centerfold. You. The star of the Cracker Barrel Ballet and Roadside Freak Show. Your Glowing-Charcoal Argyle Socks (No. 555), dyed in China, will stay mid-calf as you dance to the tune of cranky, deep fried okra. What time you get off work? I’m staying at the hotel next door. Even that 50 cent tip left by the two old crones is no match for these swanky Uzbekistan-combustible-cotton, hand quilted socks. Another cup of coffee hon. Your patrons will be amazed as you blaze through kitchen grease seizing oversized portions of mac and cheese for their delight. More biscuits. More cornbread.  Then, sparks flickering from your ankles— the manager notices. You are fired. You’re secretly thrilled. He calls you into his office.  You take a seat. Kick off your shoes. Light a cigarette from your hand-linked heel.

Ribbed, stay-up tops. Made by India’s leading hosiery-maker to the upper caste. $32. Glowing-Charcoal Argyle Socks (No. 555), as described, combustible-cotton, originally found in hell.

Susan lives on the side of Chicago; works at the Associated Press;

pursues her MFA in poetry at Columbia College and edits the Arsenic

Lobster Poetry Journal. A short story of hers most recently appeared in

the Barn Owl Review and poems in The One Three Eight & Columbia
Poetry Review.