After the Locusts

After the locusts, we cowered

After the floods, we cried

After my grandmother died

We sat on the double bed in the attic

Spread out on the white crocheted coverlet

And opened the old cedar chest

My mother and aunt, already silver haired

Gingerly excavated a long cream-colored cardboard box

Opened the fragile, faded lid

Pulled back the crinkly yellowed tissue paper

And lifted out their high school prom dresses

A cloud of lavender and lemon organza and taffeta

Spilled out over our laps, smelling like pine and dust

How small they are, exclaimed my aunt

Extending one gossamer gown with both hands

Surveying its circumference as if it was a newborn baby

Then pressing it up against her breast

My mother shook her head and murmured sadly

We were so young

We couldn’t see that we were slim and lovely

She lovingly traced the corset whalebone

And remarked on the fine stitching in the lace

Carefully retucked the bodices

Refolded the billowing skirts

And lowered the box back into the chest

Closing the lid like a casket

The next morning, I wondered about the robin

When the cold spring wind blows her nest from the crook of the branch

And her turquoise eggs litter the new grass on the hard ground

How many times does she return to the tree

Circling and spiraling in disbelief

How long does she dress in mourning

Before she finally turns and flies into the azure sky

How heavy are her wings, how broken her red breast

As she bows to the ground to pick up sticks and straw

To rebuild again and again and again.

After the storm, we are still startled by destruction

After the Black Death, we burned the bodies.

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Suzanna de Baca is a proud Latina, native Iowan, feminist, publisher, author and artist who is passionate about exploring change, transformation and exploring life in the Heartland. She is an inaugural member of the Iowa Writers Collaborative and has only recently begun to share her poetry. She lives in the small rural town of Huxley, Iowa, population 4,244.