the poetry that matters

Danielle Turso

Danielle Turso is from New York City.


playing pretend


riskless grips thrusted broken.

beast trips slurred

from john wayne father hips, breaching pristine, obscening.

preteen infancies are ceded, thieved of consonance,

of reverence. spiral mired faces

space us.


(mute the news when we walk in the room;

when we plug our ears they sound like plunder.

must be the meatus protesting our invasion)


my gums pulse to be a tiger's,  

to discard delicate, to do god's work,

but i have only milkteeth and my eyes are barely open.




What to Say When His Father Dies


A car on the side of the road is as good

a place as any. Some seconds are wetter

than others. They have the same area,

but not the same volume. Re-feel the ripples,

don’t choke on dry dock. His car swilled

centuries, waves and wakes, and our seconds

are flooded sideways. There’s something to

say about the sparks in sarsaparilla, the way

they feel in our throats being different

than the way they feel to the air.


I saw his face today on the seven train.

You know, he looks the same as always.


The lenses won’t reconcile for me either.

Some of my minutes were in his car and

you would have wanted me to hold them.

Your jars have molded. Fill them with

vinegar. You need to saturate at a time

like this. But sour softer, the spill is steep,

the wrong sauce too messy to unstream.

Some seconds are wetter than others.



                                                                                                                January 11, 2014