that’s in Africa. But who cares where she lived?
You two can laugh, but my Albert doesn’t mind
that I’m no genius in geography. He and I
will get cozy in the back of the sleigh. Helen, you can
recite all your daffodils and nightingales and shores
of Gitche Gumee, while Seth minds the horses.
You’re riding with Seth?
Edmonia blurts out, He likes me!
Don’t be foolish, Helen says.
Christine makes a sound like a laugh. That’s all
my father needs to hear: a romance
between a white boy and a colored girl.
Edmonia hears a cup settle on the table.
Have more. Don’t. Stop. Listen.
Outside, sleigh runners scrape packed snow.
The Window
Edmonia leans on the glass pane,
watches the green-eyed boy
in a brown jacket check a horse’s harness.
Helen takes a seat in front, pulls up a quilt.
She stares straight ahead as if already watching
for half-hidden dips in the road.
Seth looks up at the window.
Do his eyes widen at the sight of Edmonia?
Is he trying to tell her this ride is a duty,
a favor to a friend? She trusts
eyes and hands more than mouths.
Seth snaps the reins. The horses bolt
past trees forced to grow straight as fences.
Snow flares and flashes from under the runners
like a swan’s spreading wings.
Mythology
Edmonia doesn’t see Seth, Helen, or Christine in chapel
the next morning. The girls aren’t at Sunday dinner.
After the other boarders wash dishes, they sew
blue shirts for soldiers and write letters home.
Edmonia’s aunts roll up their homes each season
and follow signs from rivers and stars.
Edmonia writes, then burns her letters.
Smoke is as useful as stamps she can’t afford.
Her past once seemed steady. Now it flickers, as uncertain
as the future. School is a tightrope. Each step is a chance
to fall. Her arms and legs turn straw-stuffed
when kept too long where walls and furniture stay still.
She needs to get out. Would Seth be in the woods?
Would he tell the truth under the trees?
She starts past the road, but the wind is bitter and her shawl
is thin. She hurries back to shelter in the art room.
On the walls, myths turn as tangible as tables.
Drawings show girls becoming birds, stars, sunflowers,
or stone. Daphne transforms into a tree.
A vain weaver grows spider legs.
Names and even a person can change in an instant.
Edmonia can’t afford to waste paper, but rips up
her drawing. Cleopatra shows through, or does the face
of her goddess look too much like Helen’s?
She borrows Helen’s cakes of colors, starts painting a bird,
but art needs a story. She squints one eye, tilts the brush
to pry out the moment when a god turned into a swan.
Did his belly ache, his throat pinch, as arms widened
to wings? Did Zeus mourn the loss of hands and language,
hail an elegant neck? She dabs a brush on cerulean blue
for shadows as skin turns to feathers. As she paints the beak
she hears the part of the story she missed:
This was a disguise so he could attack a girl desperate
to escape. He wasn’t a swan but a monster.
When did she learn to take the side of a brute?
Chapel bells ring for afternoon prayers.
Edmonia’s absence will earn her another demerit,
but she must finish what she started.
She’s painting shimmer on the dull orange beak
when the door opens. A gust of wind
stirs pencil shavings. It’s Seth, bringing back
the warm shiver of his palm on hers.
Warmth spreads through her face, then turns chill
as he says, Helen and Christine are sick.
Albert and I left them for the night at Christine’s house.
What’s wrong? She pushes down the hair
above her forehead, which twists like flames.
They got sick in the sleigh,
which I couldn’t stop in time for them to get out.
Christine’s father helped them inside.
Something was wrong even before.
People say anything in such a state.
I said it wasn’t your fault.
What wasn’t my fault?
Bells ring for supper, so she hardly hears
Seth ask, What did you give them to drink?
Nothing. They said your friend gave them a potion.
Is it the crackling of sticks turning to ash
in the stove that make her belly clench,
or the way his eyes turn to the dim green of a swamp?
Maybe it’s just dusk creeping through the frosted windows.
She opens the door, slams it behind Seth.
An icicle falls from the eaves,
cracking on frozen ground.
Grace
The sun’s last light turns fields of snow pink.
Shadows darken. She dashes into the dormitory.
Three straight-backed chairs at the table are empty.
Nine pairs of hands folded for prayer thud softly.
The girls’ eyes shift to gray-haired Father Keep
as Edmonia takes one chair, waiting
for him to scold her for being tardy.
Instead, he shuts his eyes, slips off
his wire-rimmed spectacles. His wife bows her head,
too, as he prays for President Lincoln,
the Union troops, and the girls’ absent families.
He thanks the Lord for the bread they’re about to eat
and says, Bless those not here tonight.
Amen, the girls murmur. Then Clara asks,
Are Helen and Christine dead?
Mercy, where did you hear such a thing?
Father Keep signals his wife to serve sausages,
stewed cabbage, parsnips, and toasted bread.
They’re ill, but are getting the best of care at the home
of Miss Ennes, which is all that need be said.
Take care that no rumors spread from here.
Not in your talk, nor in your letters home.
Father Keep twines his wrinkled fingers into an orb
he sets on the edge of the table, and bows his head.
Does fear narrow the lines between his tensed fingers?
Edmonia bites a corner of toast, which catches in her throat.
Paper Swans
After wiping the dishes, Edmonia slips upstairs
to Helen’s and Christine’s room. Where did
they put those herbs? Should she hide them
so no one gets caught? She looks on the bureau
where the pearls form a circle, like a song.
She pries open a tin that smells of stale fudge,
and flips through Helen’s Bible with a flock
of family names written at the front.
She looks through a book of poems, stopping
on the page where Hiawatha mourns Minnehaha.
Edmonia hadn’t paid enough attention
to this particular poem, or the ends
of Juliet’s and Cleopatra’s stories:
the betrayals, lost words, poison.
She finds a piece of paper. She writes
—Get well—and creases the paper
into a small sculpture of a swan.
The Visitor
Returning to the dormitory from morning chapel,
>
Edmonia and the other girls see a horse,
breathing heavily, tied to a porch rail.
Clara says, Helen and Christine must be back.
I knew they’d be all right.
Ruth points out, They wouldn’t come on one horse.
Harriet Wright fetches unfrozen water for the animal.
The others rush into the parlor.
A man with hair slightly paler than Christine’s yells,
What kind of school lets girls and boys ride off
with nobody watching?
We’re gravely concerned, Mr. Ennes, Father Keep says.
Are Helen and Christine better? Edmonia asks.
They’re still alive this morning, bless the Lord.
My wife prays our daughter sees another day.
Mr. Ennes’s eyes darken as they leave Edmonia’s.
I knew you let in coloreds, but no one told me
they’d live with everyone else.
Do they eat from the same table?
Don’t tell me they sleep in the same rooms.
Edmonia was in their bedroom. Mary Ellen speaks up.
I heard screams before they left.
Then it’s true! Mr. Ennes’s pale face turns crimson.
My wife told me to stay calm and watch my tongue.
She didn’t want to believe anyone would hurt her daughter.
But our Christine claims that colored girl
who calls herself an Injun poisoned her.
This is a serious accusation, sir! Father Keep says.
There’s guilt all over her face,
Mr. Ennes says. I have my proof.
She was in their room last night, too.
Mary Ellen’s voice is shrill.
I wasn’t! Edmonia bolts past her bedroom,
then up the stairs to Helen’s and Christine’s room.
Surely neither could have blamed her.
There must be a mistake—but what if there wasn’t?
She can’t remember what she’s looking for,
but knocks things off the bureau.
Sewing scissors, jewelry, paper swans,
and the silver-handled hairbrush scatter.
A china teacup breaks.
Girls gather in the doorway.
Mary Ellen shrieks, What are you doing?
I’m getting Father Keep.
Edmonia raises her fist.
Ruth grabs her elbow, says, She’s returning a book
before someone accuses her of stealing it.
Be quiet, Mary Ellen, Harriet demands.
They’re probably not even sick.
Helen takes to bed every month when she’s indisposed.
And Christine turns everything into theater.
Edmonia bends over, picks up the pearls, cameo pin,
and crane-shaped scissors from the pine plank floor.
She sweeps up shards of china, shining like eyes.
She presses paper swans through the stove’s grate,
where they burn into black and beak-colored embers.
Wilderness
That night moonlight shines through the window.
The bureau Edmonia shares with Ruth is bare on top.
The only charms she has are hidden, a pair
of small moccasins her mother stitched before she died.
Edmonia puts on a nightgown, pulls her wool blanket
into a small tent that won’t keep out fury, fear,
or the memory of clattering china teacups.
She tells Ruth, Seth said that Helen and Christine
were in no state to know or tell the truth.
What were you doing talking to Seth? Never mind.
Don’t let anyone know you were alone with a boy.
Don’t tell me you’re never alone with Thomas.
We do nothing we shouldn’t. Ruth pulls pins
from her hair, so it swells behind her shoulders.
She awkwardly unfastens the long line
of buttons down the back of her dress,
which smells of starch. She won’t ask for help.
I know you think I’m churchy and prim,
but I’m not blind. Oberlin may be a temperance town,
but neighbors sell jugs to anyone who asks.
I’ve seen folks fall flat on their face, but get up
the next day with no recollection
of all the fool things they said or did.
They didn’t know the tea would make them ill.
No one knew. I didn’t mean . . .
Edmonia fumbles for words.
Even memory is not on her side,
but a trap and a door, lock and key.
I heard you were talking about potions
and poison, Ruth says.
We were talking about Cleopatra!
A murderer.
That’s history.
Nothing is over. They’ll think the worst.
Don’t tell anyone you were there.
I didn’t do anything wrong.
Her back teeth ache. Did she want
Helen to get sick or embarrass herself?
That wasn’t guilt, but it wasn’t innocence either.
If Christine or Helen lied, they’ll regret it
and tell the truth. They’re my friends.
Friends! A white girl always puts herself first.
Hagar probably thought Abraham’s wife, Sarah,
was her friend until she was banished to the wilderness.
Who’s Hagar?
You should spend less time drawing and more
with your Bible. Ruth looks at the book heavy
with stories about the good waiting
for their rewards, and poetry about angels
hidden in beggars and strangers.
I hear enough of men giving advice
in chapel, Edmonia says.
The Bible shows girls like us. Ruth touches her hair,
which springs into a dark cloud around her face.
Sarah couldn’t conceive, but Abraham wanted a son.
He went into the tent of her slave, Hagar.
She grew great with child. Sarah got jealous.
Hagar was sent into the wilderness,
and told never to return.
Rumor
The blue sky looks scrubbed. It stretches over rows
of trees and white houses, similar as stamps,
in the flat town that was planned for perfection.
Walking on shoveled walkways,
Edmonia notes who steps aside, who leans away.
Some boys wear linen jackets and girls silk dresses
to avoid cotton picked by slaves. Every day
students pray to be good. Silence casts a spell of equality:
No one should point to differences in color or
between students on scholarships and those who pay.
Don’t say anything to anyone. Act as if
nothing’s changed. Ruth walks close, but glances away.
Edmonia guesses she’s looking for her beau,
though Thomas is in the college program with classes
on another schedule. I should have stayed in our room.
None of us can afford to miss a class, Ruth says.
Ever since I heard that Senator Calhoun challenged
Northerners to show him a colored person
who could conjugate Greek verbs,
I swore I’d learn Greek and Latin
and one day teach those languages, too.
I’m not like you. Edmonia stops talking
as Seth, his light hair shining, strides toward her.
He says, I heard Helen and Christine are better.
But they won’t come back to school.
They’re taking their accusation to court.
This can’t come to trial just on the word of two foolish girls,
Ruth exclaims. Who I expect were drinking.
Albert brought a jug of apple wine, Seth says.
&nbs
p; And maybe some sort of herb he got from the college boys.
You need to tell Christine’s father, Ruth says.
He’d cane her, Seth replies.
Edmonia spins around as a boy calls, Watch out
for the wild Indian. Don’t take a drink from her.
Ruth tugs Edmonia’s arm
to move her farther down the walkway.
The boy steps closer, calls toward their backs,
They’re plotting who to poison next.
Rage rolls down Edmonia’s chest and into her hands.
Don’t you dare say anything about Ruth.
You gave them an Indian potion. Murderer!
Edmonia flings a fist at the boy’s pale chin,
hurls herself upon him, pounding
his chest as he tries to shove her off.
Stop it! Harriet, Seth, Clara, and others circle them.
Edmonia punches and pants with unfinished fury
as she’s pulled to her feet.
Chapel bells clang for the start of classes.
She’s crazy! a boy shouts.
As everyone else hurries toward schoolrooms,
Ruth brushes snow and grit off Edmonia’s shawl.
Never mind what people say.
Edmonia pulls her shawl close. She can’t forget
every right or wrong name.
The Defense
Edmonia moves her pencil to mirror the silhouettes
of animals and trees, but a flat world under her hands
offers no haven. She looks out the one window
in their room, then rests her head on the desk.
The wood is dark from letters she burned,
nicked from pen knives. She pushes aside
Ruth’s books, an inkwell, and a few stones
that sparkle with mica and marks
that look like small footprints.
Memory skates around thoughts:
It’s not my fault.
Of course it’s my fault.
She can’t keep her balance.
She shouldn’t have told Ruth she spoke with Seth.
Is she being punished for breaking
her promise not to tell?
Or should she have said more?
Memory won’t mind borders.
Who said: Drink? Who said: Stop?
She wants to sleep, cross the lines between
truth and forgetting, daytime and dreaming.
She hears a knock. Harriet opens the door.
Father Keep is with Mr. Langston,
the colored lawyer who knows President Lincoln!
Edmonia, they want to see you!
Edmonia hurries to the library, curtsies to the man
Stone Mirrors Page 2