Hair that was Sylvia's
have you no words now?
Like the cells of Henrietta
you're rendered mute, timeless.
Once the unmistakable proof of identity,
hair now more like a dead animal,
mummy made of mink.
Now voiceless siren,
Once the oven dehydrated your soul
and split open your telomerase,
everything baked in it afterwards
(At the hands of usurping mistresses)
tastes strangely of burnt air and scoured emotion.
The rest of your denuded fur concealed
where unfaithful lovers cannot intrude.
It shudders there during storms
or whenever the earth spasms,
as though you are still arching alive beneath it.
Surreally magnificent, , young lady...The metaphoric play you employ is riveting...Structural movement glides like satin off silk...You continue to impress this scribblers mind's eye...~FjcR~
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
You've taken genetics to a new poetic and sensual level Patti! Love this one. So well written. It speaks to me of the way that one lives on even in death. Henrietta Lack's cells were extremely feisty cancer cells that had the ability to multiply very well in a petri dish...but what of the women? Love this. Thanks. Pam (Jette)