Two Poems by Suzanna C. de Baca

by Suzanna C. de Baca

Suzanna C. de Baca is a native Iowan, proud Latina, author and artist who is passionate about exploring change and transformation. She is an inaugural member of the Iowa Writers’ Collaborative. Her poetry has been published or will soon appear in: Etched Onyx Magazine; Wholeness: A Wising Up Anthology; Written Tales; Impermanent Earth; Voices de la Luna; Choeofpleirn Press Glacial Hills Review; Choeofpleirn Press Rushing Through the Dark; Best of Cheoefpleirn Press, Our Silent Voices Anthology; Black Fox Literary Magazine; iō Literary Review; Yellow Arrow Press; The Letter Review (where she was long-listed for the Letter Review Poetry Prize) and other outlets. She is the recipient of the Derick Burleson Poetry Award and has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize. She lives in the small rural town of Huxley, Iowa, population 4244.

I Was Swallowed by a Beam of Light

Some say you were a plane, a flare, a mirage. / At first barely visible in the sky /but then your light grew

more intense / pulsating / and the sound surrounded me, / prickly heat on my skin / building, moving,

exploding suddenly/ until everything dissolved. / Some say I dreamed it all. / But I know. / I was

swallowed by a ray, / a thought, / a beam of force, / a slice of night / a phantom slipping from the other

side. / Some say it was my fault, / that I should not have been there. / That I should have cried out, fought

back / turned and bolted. / But most say I imagined it all. / How could the light have swallowed you /

when you were so small? / How can goodness even be questioned?

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Shadows in a Clinical Setting

I stood in the corner of the bright sterile room / shadowing the doctor in her stark white coat /

fluorescent lights above emitting a cicada hum. / The nurse guided you in and helped you recline

on the table / gently / the white paper crinkling beneath you. / A policeman in a black uniform /

holding a gun / stood on one side of the room / and a representative of the state / stood on the

other. / You trembled and moaned / fighting the nausea of being eight weeks along. / The doctor

leaned in and lightly touched your shoulder / fitting your feet into the metal stirrups / and guiding

your body to the edge of the table / whispering in a soft and reassuring voice: / Just relax, / it

will feel a little like a pelvic exam. / You were so tiny on the table, barely visible, / your hair in

pigtails and pink rubber bands. / Gazing up at her, you asked, / What’s a pelvic exam? / The

doctor looked over at me. / Our eyes met and widened. / They’d told us beforehand it was your

mother’s boyfriend, / how you’d been removed from the home / and the representative of the

state / had inherited your file. / I looked over at the case worker and I could see she’d gone white

/ but she just said / We’ll hold your hand/ and it will all be done soon. / After it was over

they told me you had just turned nine. /