Graciela

Wedding night

Graciela bled lightly—

But enough to stain his thighs—

And left an alphabet

Of teeth marks on his arm.

At this, he was happy.

They drank mescal

In bed like the rich

And smoked cigarettes.

She asleep

And the bottle empty, he hid

A few coins in her left shoe,

Earrings in the right.

They worked long hours

Hoeing crooked rows of maize.

Evenings she wove rugs

And embroidered curtains

To market in Taxco.

In short they lived well.

However in the seventh month

With child, her belly

Rising like a portion of the sun,

Something knotted inside her.

The ribs ached. A fever climbed.

Manuel summoned the Partera

And though she burned pepper,

And tied belts around

The stretched belly,

The child did not ease out.

Days later she turned

Onto her belly

And between her legs

Unraveled a spine of blood.

Copyright Credit: Gary Soto, “Graciela” from The Tale of Sunlight (Pittsburgh: University of Pittsburgh Press, 1978). Copyright © 1978 by Gary Soto. Reprinted with the permission of the author, www.garysoto.com.

Source: The Tale of Sunlight (1978)