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.

PUBLICACIONES

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

THE REVOLVER

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. 

GONE

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.

INVENTING AN END

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.

SEPTEMBER FUNERAL

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

unexpectedly

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, 

nothing

except the crackle of dead twigs 

against the still gray air.

.