That night in their room, Ruth asks,
When will you take the stand?
I might not. The lawyer doesn’t want me to speak.
He hopes to win the case on lack of evidence.
That doesn’t prove anything.
It can keep me out of jail.
You can tell me. What happened
that afternoon with Helen and Christine?
I poured what they asked for . . . Edmonia stops,
hears the spill of cider
or a click of a lock. I shouldn’t have . . .
Memory isn’t solid as stone,
but a river, wrecking its banks,
so she can’t tell truth from lies.
Time and voices blur, while again
and again, men clutch and twist her hair,
which becomes a weapon, turned against her.
She can’t tell their fingers from icicles.
It’s all right. You’re not alone.
Ruth leans toward her.
Let me tell you something.
No. Edmonia can hardly carry the weight
of her own memory. She can’t bear another’s.
Ruth catches her breath,
as if she just stopped running.