lunes, 3 de octubre de 2016

CHRIS TUSA [19.197]

Chris Tusa

Chris Tusa nació y se crió en Nueva Orleans, Louisiana, EE.UU.
Graduado en Escrituras Creativas de la Universidad de la Florida. Sus poemas han sido publicados en Prairie Schooner, Texas Review, New Delta Review, The New York Quarterly, Passages North, South Dakota Review, Spoon River, The Louisville Review, Tar River Poetry, Story South, Southeast Review, entre otros. En la actualidad enseña en la Universidad Estatal de Louisiana.


Ficción (novelas)

• Dirty Little Angels (University of West Alabama, 2009)

Ficción (cuentos)

• "Sons of God" published in Summer 2005 issue of StorySouth
• "Riding the Devil’s Backbone" published in Issue 4 of Southern Hum

POESÍA (libros)

• Haunted Bones (Louisiana Literature Press, 2006)

POESÍA (Chapbooks)

• Inventing an End (Lone Willow Press, 2002)

La dentadura de la abuela

La dentadura de la abuela la observa
desde un frasco en la mesita de noche.

El radio se enciende solo,
la luz del sol gatea para atravesar la ventana,

y cree sentir sus brillantes ojos azules
que ruedan fuera de la cabeza.

Está segura de que la sangre se ha vuelto polvo,
y que hay escarabajos que asedian la cavidad oscura de los huesos.

Al reloj de la pared de la cocina le falta el minutero.
A las papas en el fregadero de la cocina les salieron ojos.

Se queda mirando a mi abuelo parado en el portal,
su sonrisa titilando como el filo de un hacha.

Afuera, en el patio, una gallina brinca
entre la alta hierba buscando la cabeza.

Traductor: Armando Ibarra


We find it dark and glowing, hidden
among swollen mounds of pine needles

near a weedy bank lined with cattails
and the fallen branches of a blackgum.

Together, we stand in the smothering heat
as wind thrums through the reeds.

One of the boys strikes a match
against his belt buckle. The air hisses.

The other bends to the ground,
picks the revolver from the dead leaves.

He presses it against the sky.
It flickers in the sun.

My brother’s hands cup my ears
as sunlight ricochets through the trees. 


What I want most is you
gone, to hear each splintered board
creak beneath you
as you drift across the porch,
keys jingling in your pocket,
the exhaust from your pickup
rising like a voice.

No wonder, after you’ve left,
I spend my day wandering
the house, picking up
the pieces of your words?
No wonder, after you’ve finally gone,
I sit for hours on the porch
watching your footprints
fill with rain.


for Leigh Mayeaux, whose body was never found.

Maybe he straddles you in the soft mud,
his eyes the brown shells of beetles,
your voice a yellow-jacket buzzing
in the sweaty throat of his palm.

Maybe sunlight trickles onto the ground
as the sharp black wings of crows ripple
in the curved steel of his switchblade,
or maybe he has a gun.

In my mind the end is always the same:
your pale body twisted in the muddy mouth
of a bayou where rusty lures flicker like flashbulbs
and the spotted scales of bass blink

through green lashes of eel grass.
I see you drifting through a cloud of cattails,
hair tangled with leaves, lips curled
around your final watery word.


Two strange women whisper
through a cloud of baby’s breath,
their lips the creased petals
of poinsettias, their voices muffled
in a thick Mississippi drawl.

They pile jelly doughnuts
carelessly on their plates,
their polyester blouses freckled
with white tears of powdered sugar.

While they smile behind their napkins
I think of your startled body glowing
in the bruised light of the Bogue Falaya.

I watch them gossip over coffee,
listen to their remarks fall
like the snow outside.

Poems from Inventing An End (Lone Willow Press), © 2002

Dead Fox

In the slow drawl of winter we find it 
near the edge of a dirt road, 
twitching in a clump of weeds, 
its eyes black pools of rain, 
splotches of blood like red flowers
blooming in its fur.

We stand for a moment in the freezing air 
until my uncle returns with his rifle. 
He picks the fox up by its tail,
tells us to wait for him near the truck,
then disappears into the woods.

Minutes later, we hear
the sound of a gunshot echo 
through the dark pines. Then, 
except the crackle of dead twigs 
against the still gray air.


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