All the lake is salt-dried and
my face is the mirrored aperture, is the candle
in its melt, the colder hand
warming the other and gripping like a prayer.
I have long dreamt of being synthetic, to be obscured
under a bell in a cluster of tea roses. Water
is changing. Is your same darkest blue.
All of the black flies in Chicago have come
to cluster like a party around a dead thing sealed away. Last night
I dreamt an aquarium. Last night I was an email sent to apologize.
I allow volume to become a container. Both in decibel
and in width. To fill me while I fill it, to fill itself.
Choose what you will bury me in. I want to be breath. Please
don’t let them bury me. You put a deer’s head in my room. Each tooth
might be a headstone chattering like broken ice.
Danielle Susi is the author of the chapbook The Month in Which We Are Born (dancing girl press, 2015). She is a columnist for Entropy, the editor of HOUND, and the Programming and Media Coordinator for the Poetry Center of Chicago. Her writing has appeared in Knee-Jerk Magazine, Hobart, The Rumpus, and elsewhere. She received her MFA in writing from The School of the Art Institute of Chicago.