A Kind of Emancipation

A Kind of EmancipationAfter Kara Walker Vievee Francis (bio) The swallows exploded from your chest.How many? How many?One then another, every sorrow wingedand seeking an invitation, taking its place in your breast, crowdedalong the lung’s limbs, those barreled ribs. There was no room,but they kept coming. You couldn’t keep your mouth shut,so more, then more sought that grotto, small necksof despair bent on entering. And what was it they wanted?What drew such slights, small remarks, unintelligible suspicions,inconveniences, fights in the street become messengers? Birdsnot of prey but pity. Pity the shrieking in your head. Pityyour pecked liver. Your useless spleen. Every insult you tookin. Imagine them, butting against the wall of you.On and in they flew bird by bird until, until, until, until, who could have held on to such things? Who?I don’t blame them for wanting out. I don’t blame them.Once inside they could not keep. You fought to keep it down.You finally closed the gate, pressed your lips together. Mine,you said. Mine. And what could stand that? Pitylove’s tic riddled feathers. Its stricken feet. What was leftto do but flee? So out they burst from your dark coop.And here they nest in mine. [End Page 776] Vievee Francis Vievee Francis is author of two collections of poems, Blue-Tail Fly (2006) and Horse in the Dark (2012). She is a visiting professor of creative writing at Warren Wilson College in Asheville, NC. Copyright © 2014 The Johns Hopkins University Press

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