The lawyer feints, his hands blurring like those of a magician
with a wand, conjuring a spell from what can’t be seen.
Mr. Langston repeats: No evidence.
He won’t say murder, or even attempted,
words that shape the silent breath
of everyone filling the biggest room in town.
Does the magic-maker believe his own words?
He chants names of poisons like charms,
and what each can or can’t do,
a long story meant to illuminate
or set in shadows what was or wasn’t in teacups.
Edmonia’s name scrapes as if caught by brambles,
snagging her skirt, scratching her skin.
She can almost hear people thinking:
It was a mistake to let a girl like her
into a school like this.
In this town laid out precisely as a table,
with forks to the left, knives to the right,
people believe in two sides, guilt or innocence,
unlike the world,
where blood, snow, and earth become one.