I sink into the table, lay in corpse
pose. She swabs skin with alcohol,
asks why I want another child.
Reasons I list receive a single, civil
nod that lets them be true and silence
be true. Truth is, I’m not so honest.
I might have said: A horse’s swivel ear.
And: The reddening light, softening shadow.
And: The sound of no birds in the sky.
My acupuncturist says she was allowed
only one—a daughter, drop of elixir, single
mooncake—before coming here decades ago.
I know the basic history: A country
unable to feed itself will make hard
choices with women’s bodies.
Another country, unable to stop itself,
might do the opposite, which is the same.
Neither knowing the longing of a body.
She pricks my skin in familiar patterns,
twisting for depth and response, careful
of nerves, of muscles that jump like
fish out of water—water gone back to calm
when I close eyes, relax into figments, watch
phosphenes flare and disappear, flicker
against the gray wall. Outside, the world’s
inflamed. Too much heat here, stuck energy
there—organs forgetting the others exist.
To hurt or heal, we stab.
–
Angela Sucich’s poetry chapbook, Illuminated Creatures (Finishing Line Press, 2023) won the 2022 New Women’s Voices Chapbook Competition and other recognitions. She was honorably mentioned for the 2021 Pablo Neruda Prize and the 2020 Francine Ringold Award. Her poetry has appeared in Nimrod, RHINO, Atlanta Review, SWWIM, and elsewhere.