In the line before the gallery, Edmonia listens
to people use the words talent, genius, and peculiar.
One lady says, Miss Hosmer grew up near Boston,
though now she makes her home in Rome. Her father
did his best after her mother passed over,
but the girl rode horses, paddled in the river,
was raised rather like a wild Indian.
The line moves on until Edmonia stands before a tall statue
of a woman who raises wrists bound in shackles
as if they were as light as ribbons. Zenobia’s gaze
and gait look steady, even with chains around her ankles,
punished by Romans for her greed for land.
This is how her ancestor might also have been forced
to walk if she hadn’t plucked an asp from a basket of figs.
Zenobia holds out her hands, even in shackles,
to show they couldn’t take her spirit.
The marble’s polish reflects light.
Smooth as teacups, there’s no sign of human hands.