Today we are Tartan plaids bleeding

at the intersection. Lit candles: flame

flavored like goji berry and

smoking crosshairs in the aftermath


This is a fallen tree in the road, the smell

of spilled pine over a scratched record. A screened

in porch and a creaky door slam


I chart your grief on

a portolano map because

it is a coastline


Tomorrow we’ll be sparrows

on the White Mountains, bellow the names of

stones kicked out of place

and let each ravine know

just how heavy our heads have been


Not One of Them Is Spotless


When your mouth is a standard rowboat

it will be okay for your tonsils to have sung

the vibration of an outboard motor.


We all take out our licenses and

not one of them says “donor” or

has the state we are in

printed above our names—

above the town where we blew

our first red light.


You imagine being with a future me and

I am in love with

that possibility the way

I am in love with

the few steps before a tidal line.


We all take out our teeth and

not one of them is spotless.

When we hold them to the light

we regret every reflected dimple.


Our mouths are too small

to hold them all in, but our teeth

will always forgive us.

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, The Rumpus, Lines+Stars, Dialogist, and Midway Journal, among many others. Recently, Newcity named her among the Top 5 Emerging Chicago Poets.