When she hears a call from the doorway
—E permeso?—Edmonia steps out of the dust
that clouds her eyes, leaves grit under her teeth,
between her fingers, behind her ears, tangled in her hair.
She greets a couple dressed in fine clothing,
then stands as still as the art they circle.
Some want mementos of honorable men.
Others prefer sprites and imps
with no message but foolishness or joy.
They glance from the small statues to her,
looking for tales to take home.
Some faces flicker with surprise and efforts to hide it.
Some spill praise. Others offer advice,
or say, She’s young. True art takes time.
Edmonia straightens to keep her balance
between presumption’s batter and swing.