After the Locusts
Poetry by Suzanna de Baca
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
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
About the writer
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 4244.