Four Poems by Danielle Susi

With a blossom in the throat Body begs an oscillating storm. Decorated tornado siren. The emblem of the commonwealth is one gold man and a raised blade. Our separated particles divided among the new. Spend our lives collecting them once again. How dangerous to be so sorted. A gloved hand is never an empty hand.

You were the river I pushed against for as long as I could for as long as I needed to and if you drown me it’s because I let you drown me in a current washing sideways toward the shore I reached out to take a limb that had fallen too and so was weak like me you must have been the first particle I found I am verted and by verted I mean vertigo has had its way with me

They found your grandfather with a mouth full of gold. His remnants drowned. Death, a tired, ridden bone.

He’s said to have been brought back twice. In the water, everything around him was blood falling from the ear. It moves a little slower now.

Danielle Susi is the author of the chapbook The Month in Which We Are Born (dancing girl press, 2015). Her writing has appeared or is forthcoming in Knee-Jerk Magazine, Hobart, and The Rumpus, among many other publications. She is a columnist for pioneertown and Entropy, and the co-editor of HOUND. She received her MFA in writing from The School of the Art Institute of Chicago and Newcity has named her among the Top 5 Emerging Chicago Poets. Find her online at