1

I come from an island of stones

to marry Joe.

In Pico,

stones on top of the land, underneath it

overflowing into the ocean. 

With bare hands I claw through stones

to find the earth.

                           2

At my wedding I dance the Chamarrita

with Joe.

A glass of red wine, then another,

my shawl, a heap on the floor.

We sleep good on an iron bed

with a big mattress.

                           3

Here in California cherries, apricots,

prunes are plucked loose from limbs,

sound of fruit striking the bottoms of buckets.

I grow vegetables;

Beet hearts, potatoes curled like pale grubs.

I milk cows, churn butter,

can fruits in tin cans sealed with wax,

make soups of kale or cabbage,

a shriveled onion, a dried bean.

I pound dough into loaves.

Big with a baby,

I sit in the evening with my crocheting,

let the orchard come through the window.

                         4

When my boy breaks through me

blue and silent,

a stain seeps

red and sticky on the sheets.

The midwife bends over me,

dips a towel into a bucket of hot water.

Lying on my side, I can see out the window

the apple trees stretch over the hill.

A priest mumbles the rosary,

my Joe looms above me,

his hands at his sides, big and useless