Biography of Chris Tusa
Chris Tusa was born in New Orleans, Louisiana. He holds a B.A. in English, an M.A in English, and an M.F.A. from the University of Florida. He is the author of Inventing an End and Haunted Bones. His poems have appeared in Prairie Schooner, The Texas Review, Spoon River, Louisville Review, Passages North, Louisiana Literature, The New Delta Review, Lullwater Review, StorySouth, New York Quarterly, and others. He teaches in the English Department at LSU. To read samples of his work, visit http: //www.christusa.net
Chris Tusa's Works:
Inventing an End
Chris Tusa Poems
My grandmother’s teeth stare at her from a mason jar on the nightstand. The radio turns itself on,
In A Marriage Certificate
Deep in the cotton petals of a watermark I see my father stacking sheets of plywood, his hands freckled with sawdust, his silvery
Ode To Gumbo
after Sue Owen Born from flour anointed with oil, from a roux dark and mean as a horse’s breath,
Divine and white, you’re an aspirin fit for the gods, the powdery ghost of Gandhi conjured into a bottle,
Like a trick you crawled up Hitler's sleeve, a crooked cross with bent arms, two cursed S's twisted together
Ode To Cancer
Imagine a tiny black flower, the nurse says, blossoming in your spleen.
Kindergarten Portrait Of My Mother At Ma...
She looks rather pathetic, really, leaning against the black air, the three mangled fingers of her left hand clutching a yellow purse,
The Tooth Fairy On Welfare
A sudden surge of boys with their smiles punched out, care of a local Tough Man contest. It was all I needed
The Disappearing Act
I sill remember my father, on Sunday nights, When he dressed up and played magician, smiling as he pulled bright blue handkerchiefs from the tiny white mouth of his fist,
Photograph Of A Missing Girl In A Barber...
You stand in the gray air, your face a mirror reflecting the dark shadows of trees. Clouds drift in the brown water
Someone stole Satan’s hipbone and flung it against the sky. Now you ride the orange horizon, a stunned, wingless bird
The picture on the cover of the puzzle box shows a woman with orange hair and fish-white skin standing in the mouth of a seashell.
Christmas In The Psych Ward
The schizophrenic girl twists off a turkey leg then scoops a spoon-full of corn onto her plate. Her hair is a black brain of braids,
Fairytale Of Fear
Another tornado warning, power lines down, the same ring around the rosy. But there’s no pocketful of posies for this black plague in my brain.
My grandmother’s teeth stare at her
from a mason jar on the nightstand.
The radio turns itself on,
sunlight crawls through the window,
and she thinks she feels her bright blue eyes
rolling out her head.