for Henrietta Lacks

in that soft flesh hallway;
nameless
           pea-sized
                      caressing
your children as they pass 
into sunlight
               before being 
imprisoned in a glass tube
blown by Corning
                  and fed on blood
from the beating hearts of the chickens
down at The Deitz Brothers
poultry stand. 
.              A beast so foreign
to what you raised,
holding deep your imprint
in its existence,
                  (still you smile
that Dorthy Lamour smile) not wanting
to be a martyr
                for creating that iron horse
they’ll call the He La line,
not even your father the brakeman could slow
your ascent

to immortality;
genes stolen from the West Coast
of Africa and brought to the East Coast
of America
            all your eyes ever saw
were Virginia, D.C. and Baltimore
but when they closed you took a ride
around the world,
                   not to great a price
paid, dying a little for each life you gave.

Some Other Kind Of Index