Chris Tusa

Rookie (01.01,72 / New Orleans, Louisiana)

Best Poem of Chris Tusa

Ode To Gumbo

after Sue Owen

Born from flour anointed with oil,
from a roux dark and mean as a horse’s breath,
you remind me of some strange, mystical stew
spawned from a muddy version of Macbeth.
Only someone’s replaced the spells with spices,
the witches with a Cajun chef.

Maybe you’re a recipe torn from Satan’s Cookbook,
a kind of dumb-downed devil’s brew
where evil stirs its wicked spoon
in a swampy sacrificial hue.
Maybe God damned the okra that thickens
your soup, the muddy bones that haunt your stew.

Maybe this is why, when we smell the cayenne,...

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Fear Of Weather

Once a favorite conversation piece,
now something more like a disease.

A weathervane sings, a wind chime clangs.
It’s December, only a slight silver breeze,

but already I’m imagining the tangled
metal of cars, birds falling from the trees.

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