Crystal and silver gleam on the cloth-covered table.
Miss Cushman, a Shakespearean actress, has invited
Harriet Hosmer and other sculptors for dinner.
She assures Edmonia of the freedom she’ll find
in Rome, and asks about the nation after the war.
There’s jubilation and grief, she replies. As before.
A war means more monuments and memorials, an artist says.
We heard they melt cannons to make bronze statues.
Bronze can’t honor like smooth white marble, Harriet says.
Though it can stand up to New England winters.
Where in America did you come from? a woman asks.
Her fingernails look worn by stone. They’re rimmed
with dried clay. Her silk gown and pearls
and gold around her throat and wrists glimmer.
Another artist asks, Why did you leave?
Glances between guests
suggest that stories crossed the sea before her.
Edmonia wants to loosen memory’s tight sleeves.
She glances at a servant who doesn’t glance back.
Miss Cushman told her that Sally could make
a proper cup of tea and tame the actress’s hair.
The more she praised her loyalty,
the more Edmonia felt forced to see
Sally’s dark skin and Miss Cushman’s pride or guilt.
She signals Sally to clear the dishes, invites guests
to the parlor for cheesecake and cappuccino.
Potted palms lean over a glass case displaying historic swords,
pistols, and knives. She points out the dagger
she used playing Lady Macbeth in New York,
the vial that she mimed held poison
when performing as Romeo in London.
Edmonia won’t join the games of charades
or cards under chandeliers. She won’t stand
between the grand piano and the case of weapons
while others sing Home, Sweet Home.
The gold-framed mirrors and velvet drapes
are far from the Oberlin boarding house’s braided rugs,
wooden chairs, plain walls, and narrow beds.
Or they’re exactly the same. China teacups clatter.