A Talk with Henrietta

She tells me that I look like you
I've never really seen it,
but it's nice to think about

perhaps the small space between
two front teeth, dark eyes,
skin that browns like a round
smooth nut in sun

the way I love to dance,
the way you used to

in my mind, I see you;
your black dance pumps
fly across worn wooden floors,
five cents a dance

for years you watched me from the hallway
like someone I'd met but could not place;
a stranger out of context

who was it, dear, that gifted you
with the virus that cost you your life?

the real secret was not the child, it was the man

hundreds could not give you enough to love that away;

you paid the price at the end of a dark hallway,
your love for her presented at your weakest

when I was twelve I thought I saw you smile
from the Sacred Heart hung above
a pink chenille bedspread, your room
a light too bright for me to sleep in

although you waited;
I know she never saw you

with appetites as large as yours,
the uneasy comfort of a sad escape,
liquid rolling at the back of my throat,
my secret pilot light skewed, ignited

I know now why you stayed;
I wish now that she'd see you 

Unplug

A poetry prompt from the group: 

The Way Out Is

what was
is wearing
through

hairline fractures
the invisible exits
for what can not
be held back

you've spent a
lifetime patching

gathering plugs
for the largest hurts

made from the
circumstance
of others,
a monotonous
drama of
the daily

the pain of
avoidance
will break you

as holes multiply,
you will falter

relief lies
in the seeping
exit of your
self-made filling