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FEATURED FEMME: SUSAN

FEATURED FEMME: SUSAN COSSETTE AUTHOR STATEMENT: “Dark and dangerous content wrapped in pink taffeta and topped with a tiara…” Susan Cossette’s sparse, wry poetry examines the struggle to preserve personal identity and integrity under the constraints of suburbia and massproduced culture. Her work also explores the contemporary political landscape while striving to give voice to those who have been victimized. She earned her B.A. and M.A. in English from the University of

Connecticut, where she studied with poets James Scully and Marilyn Nelson and was a two-time recipient of the Wallace Stevens Poetry Prize. The author of Peggy Sue Messed Up, her work has appeared in Rust and Moth, Anti-Heroin Chic, Clockwise Cat, The Scarecrow Journal, and the Adelaide Literary Magazine (short-listed for Pushcart nomination), among others. A 2017 transplant to the Twin Cities, Susan’s readings include Barnes and Noble (Stamford, CT), The Hudson Valley Writers’ Center (NY), Curley’s Poets (Stamford, CT) Writers Resist (Norwalk Community College), Confluencia (Palace Theater, Danbury CT), and most recently The Day of the Dead Poets Slam in Rochester, MN. To pay the bills, Susan is Annual Fund and Communications Manager for Way to Grow in Minneapolis, a nonprofit organization committed to closing the educational gap among the Twin Cities’ most isolated families. More of her work may be found at www.musepalace.wordpress.com. Her video readings may be seen at: https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCDZupms9agckaMAUGe5B7yA?view _as=subscriber! Enola Gay Put the dark goggles on. If we fail, there is a pill to take. Six minutes, and you will be gone. You won’t know anything. You won’t talk to the enemy. The sun’s red hull invades the horizon. It is time to deliver the physicist’s nightmare— The brightest and hottest thing since creation. Do not look at the source of fierce light. Cold math is our new co-pilot. Then, a lead taste in the mouth, A crackling of the jaw— Quantum artifacts embed in my fillings, Pass through flesh. They could be seen, felt, tasted. Micro-clots of seared blood in my veins. My god, look at that son of a bitch go.

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