After Kara Walker’s Cut (1998) - Click to view
Blood enacts the mob.
It furls from the girl’s wrists like ribbons
trail behind charging ponies.
The blood in curls like a cake lets go
when it cools. She is not in control
of what the ink will say is under her skirt.
The girl has done the work
of the mob herself. She holds the knife in a hand
so severed it could hardly be called her own.
The blood like hair pouring
from the rim of the neck.
What doesn’t want a part of the dance,
the awkward reach and surrender? Blood leaps
and her braids lift. Her boots will never touch
the ground again. Dragged upward like a clot of ash,
the gap where her wrist should be is now a spout.
The blood where her feet should have been
if they were not flying. The blood
waves, a scarf that catches the wind.
Her body is the tree and blank eyes of mothers
all at once. The blood enacts voices shouting
down the street for us to hear,
Here is the party. See how it waves to us
to join the celebration.