Edmonia unwraps the woolen slippers that still smell
faintly of pepper and cedar used to keep away moths.
She kneels by the bed, folds her hands the way Ruth did,
then hums songs about exodus and troubled waters.
She clasps the slippers as she sleeps and hears,
I didn’t mean to hurt them. Not anyone.
They drank from cups they chose themselves.
I know. I always knew. Ruth hands
her a pair of soft, small moccasins.
Edmonia wakes, but not in the room where she heard
flames from the hearth Ruth tended
while washing blood from her dress.
Did Ruth keep the small moccasins,
burn something else, then put them
in the carpetbag Edmonia left behind?
She can almost smell the worn deerskin.
She knows the texture of each perfectly placed bead,
the deliberately ragged edge. Her mother
must have always wanted her to find beauty
in both careful stitches and unraveling borders.