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
Divine and white, you’re an aspirin fit for the gods, the powdery ghost of Gandhi conjured into a bottle,
A Retired Voodoo Priestess Dreams Of Rev...
Only three days and already I loathe this place, this milk-white morgue, this smiling slaughterhouse, where girls in straitjackets grow fat on pills, floating on pale clouds of Clozapine,
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
Like a trick you crawled up Hitler's sleeve, a crooked cross with bent arms, two cursed S's twisted together
Fear Of Weather
Once a favorite conversation piece, now something more like a disease. A weathervane sings, a wind chime clangs.
Ode To Gumbo
after Sue Owen Born from flour anointed with oil, from a roux dark and mean as a horse’s breath,
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,
Snow White, To The Prince
after Susan Thomas Truth is, my life was no fairytale, that afternoon, I lay, a smiling corpse
The Sky Is Falling
The sky is falling. And Henny Penny is nowhere to be found. There is no bright blue cartoon sky,
Maybe it’s Emphysema, a shiny black jewel of phlegm humming like a clump of bees in my chest. Perhaps a tumor crawling in the crook of my armpit, a blood clot opening like a tiny red flower in my brain.
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,
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.
I am like one of those little pigs,
struck dumb with post-traumatic stress,
waiting for my house to be blown in.