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.
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.