Among forty-four fabulous felines,
only our black cat ambled with
a galumphing gait, under her

And she was Mayhem. Cats with
orange striped coats or those with
pure white fleece were eclipsed

By her black velvet fur. Her gleaming
eyes paralyzed the innocence of lizards
while hypnotizing the snakes sunning

On stones along the garden path.
Mayhem persevered nearly seven years
through storms under bed covers. She could

Read secret signs and stoically endure.
A black cat is One unto itself. Mayhem
was She who was One unto us all in

Charge with her golden eyes of splendor.
I loved the arrogance of her demeanor
and the indifference of her stretching.

Mayhem would pace past the crowd
at our house concerts, her flair in
majestic moments in the month of

May, grandly ruling our rituals.
A circle of madrone trees with barks
of brown would shade the ground with

Red berries transforming into blossoms.
The soul of Mayhem, crossed over right
there – to and fro the place on the hill

Above our labyrinth where Spirit took her
To immerse in energy with other species.
From that day, Mayhem moved within a

Heavy silence alongside the clan of cunning
coyotes who would break a neck in an instant
left only a ball of inky mane, had led us in a

Grueling march only to hold on our altar,
oh we who long for animal spirits,
Why do we moan so piteously?

If we would only stop a moment,
we might feel how the purring of
Mayhem pulses through our breaths

And the radiant vital blood of those we love.
I knew the mighty midnight madness
of Mayhem toying with the rodents’

Delicate frames and her frantic morning
haunts as she flipped flailing in her fantasy
of the stems of leaves mimicking mice tails.

Yet, Mayhem to this day is in my soul.
As the sparks in Mayhem’s crazy eyes aimed
their beams at emptiness in Geoff’s ample lap,

She would jump to claim her rightful throne.
Together, they would create a timeless shape —
something ancient, stunning in that boundary

And at the vision of Mayhem’s heft leaping
onto Geoff’s keyboard, even the grandchildren
of the Internet lifted their eyes in wonder.

The soul of Mayhem ambled in at night
to the sound of his deep voice leading
to the startling cool yellow of butter

On the edge of the table knife.
Outside a sliver of the moon slipped

Behind a shadow in the knob cone tree.
Clouds are silently shifting.
Mayhem must be sleeping.

The sun sets in the mist of love.
Wet garden grass weeps anew.
The air is soft, sad enough to shower

On Mayhem lurking in the mimosa tree
Among seed pods, rocking its branches.
This time, she will not complain of rain.

November 9, 1995

Alas that I should die, That I should die now,
I who know so much from the Shoshone.

They will miss you,
your garments—
voluminous yards and yards
of velvet, cotton, silk,
fine and hand-sewn.

The fig puddings,
persimmon breads,
star-shaped sweets
they will miss you.

The music of Hildegard,
the teachings of the Que’ro
will miss you.
It will miss you—
the Anna hummingbird.

The woven hammock
in your living room,
the picture window,
the pond arranged,
the rocks you hauled up,
the hill will miss you.

The hairs on your head, black,
then silver, they will miss you.
It will miss you, your body,
vast and dignified.
Your redwood grove,
it will miss you.

Clear words of the crone— they
will miss you. Strong actions,
standing up, speaking out—
they will miss you. Withholding
of judgment, love of justice,
wisdom of women— they will
miss you, oh wide horizon—

Stretched across your mountain.

Who came to me in my dreams as
Anna Kareninia arose from the train? 

Who kissed me to the ground
in her Icelandic cape?

Who showed me her cubic salt shakers
Whose mouth loved plum jam?

Whose hair was the golden hills
in Foothill park?

Whose eyes were lupins?
Whose champagne blushed poppies?

Whose song scaled Mt. Shasta as
I wove her a net of daisies.

Truly, if I had a dollar for every poem
I wrote to you in my mind speeding

Down Highway One o’ One, I would 
have given them to you. Then you could 

Have quit staring at that damn terminal,
Singing and dancing all day every day. 

It was little over a month since we had
our pilgrimage to Mt. Shasta. 

Those days saw we through many months
You said you were certain I was  sitting on

Mt. St. Helens.  I said no,  I am the volcano,
you are my sister, exploding.

In an elegant room, where Mahler’s music
and Monet’s watercolors captured our ears
and eyes, the one original spirit was Dee’s.

Mourning doves perched outside her
window, their soft, drawn-out songs
— laments. She listened softly.

Dee blessed the gentle breezes;
her blonde hair danced in the trees,
her voice like the girl from Ipanema.

She could challenge anything, could
dare anyone with her witty speech
along with that deep reach.

Dee’s sister Aroha and son Michael,
along with many others, remained
uncertain: Which did they prefer—

The concern in her questions,
the mystery of her smiles, or
creativity she couldn’t quell?

Picking up flowers covering the ground,
Dee made bouquets in sweet pleasure.
Dee’s fervor crossed her path, entwined

In radiance, in sadness. Oh you, who
honored Dee’s beauty, why were you
so busy day and night?

Pause a moment, sense the light in
Dee. Her blood and breath held all
that we have loved and will cherish.

She chanted hymns in church choirs
crooned her heart out with the blues
in jazz clubs galore. Dee’s foresights

Into the profound joy of travel led her
to myriads of sights. Her visions
of capturing far-away places with

Her unique art soared— shaping
all that was new, stunning. In Israel,
Egypt, Portugal, Michael reveled as

Mother transformed pyramids
into drawings, savoring how she
changed Jerusalem into watercolor.

Michael with brother Geoff watched
as Dee altered into oil paintings.
Over the decades, Dee molded

Porcelain plates: painting French vineyards,
birthday parties, weddings. Her plates were
endless. Oprah bought them.

Thoughtfully, Dee turned out designs, laying
them on the altar of her art. Even in her last days,
she made and gave art. Imagine Dee’s visions in

The sky hastened, softly wandering as twilight
clouds rising, sweeping with her exquisite discernment. While she dreamt in presence

Of beauty, Dee saw how she had lived long,
free with music, loving song, painting, drawing
until the showers cascaded, inside rainbows.

Dee adored silver Pacific waves,
slipping under the horizon. One afternoon,
while sprinkling tenderness, she slept

for the ages holding our restless, hurting hearts
in quietude, she joined the stars.

Among dancing green trees,
dripping endless rain, the only
peaceful spirit was Jane.

Western bluebirds announced
brash disputes. Jane resolved
them, standing still, thoughtful.

Jane blessed gentle breezes.
She was merciful, aware of
unknown tongues.

Jane would challenge anything
and adored daring anyone with
astounding soul and strength.

We all remained uncertain:
what did we treasure more —
kindness in her questions,

Pure nature in her smile,
or warmth in her open hand?
Petals of blue bonnets fell,

Covering ground with pleasure.
The fervor of Jane crossed her
path entwined with radiance,

With sadness. Oh you,
who honor her brilliance,
why runaway day & night?

Pause a moment, sense
the glow of Jane. It’s breath
and blood of one we revere.

Jane understood the music of
song birds and the rhythms of
their flights.

Her foresights soared past all that
would become new and stunning.
We know Jane was pivotal

In every awesome marvel we have
sought. Imagine Jane’s visions in
the sky, hastening, softly wandering

As twilight clouds would rise,
sweeping discernment into
her deepening black night.

When Jane dreamt in presence
of all things beautiful, her eyes
moved faster than Further.

She lived long and free with
students of philosophy,
measurers of law,

Midwives, psychologists
children, gardens,
book clubs, recipes,
poets, actors, athletes,
neighbors, lovers,
friends.

Jane’s witty words flew like sheer
curtains in her bedroom, saying:
“Everybody was in love with

Everybody and they all expressed
that fully.” The showers cascaded,
settled inside rainbows. She was

Drenched in silver and Pacific waves,
slipping under the horizon. The night
was dank with haze that sprinkled

Tenderness. Jane slept in stars lulling
restless hurting hearts in her quietude.

Midway in November, one
soul moved in synchrony

With three vultures’ lacy wings.
Al looked in his lofty windows,

One last time as they soared
in a circle of power and grace.

He who followed their moves
through black binoculars

Breathed soft, then nevermore.
Al loved their elevated flight.

He was entranced by ascension.
He asked us if we were climbing

To the mountain top. We nodded.
A man at one hundred is at one

With earth’s cycles. Al was at one
with steely seas and grey skies.

We can imagine adoring the
twinkle in Al’s blue eyes

More or less wrinkling them,
winking at everyone he saw.

The elm leaves fell, covering
the earth with golden rapture.

Al’s keen senses crossed
there — trembling, his passage

Intertwined with mirth and loss.
Do you honor generosity, see

The wind release the red leaves.
Pause and you will also feel

Al’s pulse through your being,
amazed with such wonder.

We know the dynamic pitch of Mozart
and the sacred sound of intensity.

We fathom Al’s fervent aspect and
know it is pivotal to what we grasp.

Al said “I have come this far.”
and circled around boundaries

Of the earth with adventure and
appreciation. His spirit cycles still.

Vultures are venerable creatures.
Understanding hallowed purpose,

Al took what was good from what no
longer lived and consecrated it

With an epicurean delight, sailing seas
in war and peace, navigating canals

Blessing bays, he swam rivers, plunged
into the Arctic, sunrise reflected every

Sparkling wave, under the numinous drab
of November Al soared — stunning, holy —

In the air. The sky was dark all day — prediction
of a flood, the Chesapeake flat and silent.

That night, a candle fell on his marble table,
his soul enshrined in the temple of our love.

The only soul who could dance
in harmony was Mardy.

She listened to the cardinals
with their scarlet songs

And was careful to hear how
they announced their noisy

Conflicts. Mardy could resolve
them as she walked spiral paths,

Thoughtful, listening. She
revered the bay air and

Spoke its special tongue.
A man and a woman are one.

Mardy was whole in that love.
I do not know which I favor —

The concern of her inquiry
Or the depth of her profundity —

Mardy’s discerning twinkle or
the comfort of her embrace.

Dogwood blossoms fell
like a pink canopy of delight.

The bliss of Mardy crossed
the earth with joy and sorrow.

Oh you who follow sweetness,
Why do you rush so constantly?

Stop a moment; you too will feel
Mardy’s magic move through the

Wind & lifeblood of those you love.
I know some music of song birds

And rhythms of the bay’s waves,
but I know too that Mardy

Is entangled in what I know.
When Mardy’s sight soared,

Trailing her golden feathers,
she marked the boundaries

Of what was beautiful and astonishing.
And at the sight of Mardy winging

In the open air, even the children of the
internet lifted their eyes in wonderment.

Mardy rode over so many seas in
Her sleek reliable craft. The colors

Of the water changed from robin’s
egg blue to the green of tumbled glass

To the startling orange of the waves
as the sun slipped down the skyline.

The clouds are silently shifting.
Mardy must be flying.

It was late afternoon all day long.
The coast was soaked with tears.

It was going to shower love.
Mardy sat rocking in treetops

Lulling the raucous birds into peace.

The one with the soul in her bright eyes
simmered the solace of nursery green.

She was of three dispositions
like the big tree standing with

Three children climbing or
falling. Rachel raged on the rooftops:

Only a small part of her tragedy.
A woman and her child are one.

A woman without her child and Rachel are one.
I do not know which to prefer the knife

Of her wit or the satin of her smile.
Rachel’s silence or her laughter.

Mimosa blossoms framed
the window with their soft

Pink tinctures.The phantom of
Rachel paced to and fro.

Her kaleidoscopic moods
traced in those shapes

A cryptic cause. Oh, you
archeologists of far shores,

Why do you imagine famous digs?
Do you not see how Rachel’s mystery

Is buried unseen and deep in the lives
Of all the souls who knew her?

I recall cutting remarks
And stunning insights;

But I know, Rachel is involved
in what I know.

When Rachel flew out of sight,
she left us breathless with wanting.

At the vision of Rachel untethered
from this veil of tears even

The philosophers of San Jose
would throw down their premises.

One of her sisters rode up, down
the streets of San Francisco.

Another walked in meadows
under Colorado mountains.

Another lived to protect
orphans and redwoods.

Another reinvented clothes
once treasured, then cast off.

And yet another taught rhythms
old as heartbeats and sang truth

In songs others wouldn’t dare.
At times, a sense seized

Them mistaking the endless
silhouettes of their strivings

For those of Rachel.
The wine of the spirit is flowing

Blood red. Rachel must be flying.
It was midnight all day long.

There were salted caramels for everyone,
and it was going to snow heavy flakes.

Rachel slept in the garden she had planted
to take away the pain. With her dog nestled

Faithful in her lap, she dreamt only of Louis.

i.
That last night the candlelight
wedged Marcia was in the oak
booth among us, her friends.

Those auburn wishes, the fuzz
of an angel, destined never to
touch her best Mohair sweater.

First her slender finger twisted her
golden wedding ring, then fiddled
frantic, tapping a restaurant knife,

Wrought of stainless steel — across
the table reflecting her flame.
Marcia was a new friend, an old

Friend’s fellow teacher, leaving
me hungry, pregnant, weary.
My eyes were a mirror,

My heart a drum. We were all
but twenty—six years old.
Our prongs were eager,
Marcia’s fork pierced

The beef rare, juices
running red. Her neck
taut, her skin parchment,

Fair and beloved by her
muscle. Rayon swirls
of her sea green scarf

Around her temple provided
perch for a dime store owl
with one rhinestone eye,

Her last attire of delight. She who
would be cold in the earth near fifty

Decembers. No blood, no water now
but ash, back, chest & knucklebone.

On November 2nd 1972, at 4:20 am,
in sight of her apartment in Flatbush,
Marcia was mugged.

ii.
Earlier that hurried afternoon
my car stalled, me frenzied,
abandoning ship.

Sinking in the icy rain,
wading stubborn through
the spirals of cocoa sludge.

The flash floods, determined to
get home, work to finish, then
a rest before that good night.

We would hear the silver voice
of Doris Lessing, prim, elegant
as a mouse, discover, “Survival

In a Violent Society.” Later you,
Marcia, tasted that bitter water
I had allowed above my knees.

On November 10th at Kings County
Hospital, having never fully regained
consciousness, after two emergency

Operations, Marcia died.

iii.
Huddled in the back seat of
Gail’s aging Falcon on the way
to the lecture at Rutgers

You, Marcia, whirled your breath,
a labyrinth of steam, explaining
how you had always wanted

To organize volunteers in Brooklyn
helping the world understand why
people do such things.

In April, on the way to the movies,
you Marcia, held hands with your
husband, seeing the storefront

For that congressional campaign,
liking the idea of a young woman
with liberal ideas such as yours.

Running for office, finding
your candidate’s smile,
constant as yours, you

A woman ever in love. Inhaling
the herb deep, we flicked ashes
out the vent, teasing you, full

Of admiration, wanting topic
sentences, the end of fist
fights for all students who

Learned to correct quizzes.
We were fast idiots who
forgot nothing, we were

So unlike you, Marcia.

“The problem is, you don’t know why
or who did it.” Elizabeth Holtzman said,
when asked of her political thoughts

as a result of this crime.

iv.
Late we were, then, circling
for an empty space to park.
At last finding one, we bolted,

Jogged, our bellies full of bread
and roast beef, across the dark
campus, navigating ancient oaks

Then breathless, we arrived;
music pounding in our hearts
announced the aforesaid room

Its tiny rows of metal, folded chairs
occupied. You, Marcia, concerned
that I, eight months pregnant would

Be rising no more from the dusty linoleum,
holding out your hand, you led me down.
Hearing compartmentalization

Of the intellectual and moral climate
of the mid-twentieth century, some
issues of female identity and of

“Briefing for a Descent into Hell,”
a moral fable. You hauled me up,
offering a wrist turned skyward.

I held fast, and lifted, felt a pulse
faint as plum blossoms drifting.
That was all before we burst

Into that moonless chill with you,
who was icy in the earth these
endless Decembers,

No blood no water now,
but ash, back, chest,
and knucklebone.

“… stabbed six times in her chest
and back, received other wounds
on her face, neck, and arms.”

v.
Night! What kind of mother are you anyway?
You, old, serene in your black cape.
Awaken your children at one a.m.

Alone you climb on grey rock and rattle
your call, then float away down river,
your feet smooth stones,

Your head above water. Marcia
had seen you in her poem at
my garden apartment. She

Recalled “Night! Toothless,
an old enemy gnawed and
gnawed out all warmth.”

Gulping her burgundy, Marcia pushed
then pulled waves of liquid fire down,
a network of lava pumped, refined,

White heat beneath pink mohair.

She’d met me already and knew
“I thought she’s be safe after
she married,” her mother said.

vi.
Like Ix Chel*, Marcia came and went
as she pleased. That night, she had
been hunting, when they brought

Her body back, laying slumped against
an old tree in Brooklyn on a sidewalk.
We had burned sandalwood, after

The lecture, torn apart, and devoured
bread and salami, listened in my
apartment to Julian Bream playing

“The Art of Courtly Love.” Could they
have heard her above bull roarers?
Imagine how hard it was for her,

Grueling work to run and slam her
head against the wall screaming,
“help,” wildly waiting for neighbors

She loved. It was Ann Sexton,
she read to us the night we met.
“Men kill for this, or for as much.”

Marcia always wanted to
see things, a mind of her
own like being out at night.

Her pocketbook taken and her
wedding ring later recovered
with her wallet, emptied of $23.

Her father said, “The main reason
Marcia went out on her own is that
I was financially unable to help her.”

*IX Chel is the Mayan moon goddess
who look the sun as her lover only
to find him jealous and unjust.

She took to wandering at night
as she wished, making herself
invisible when the sun god

Came near and spent her
energies nursing women
of the earth through

pregnancy and labor.

vii.
We talked about how crazy
it was to bring any children
into this world — drugs and

Vietnam. And the need
to do it — despite that.
Everything is not rational.

We mused. Wondering if
Rauni had seen that Gail
and I would plant water,

Cultivate five daughters
on two coasts. The crystal
streamed through Marcia’s

Burgundy, glistening in the
wedding decanter. It knew
no bottom and filled the

Glasses with magic. I trudged
through my corridor back and
forth, my bladder

Flat, the target of their glee
rosy as cherries. Marcia had
beaten a merry path down

The squishy carpeted hallway,
her well-heeled Weejuns
kicked aside, her thighs

Squeaking nylon, her fast feet
padded silent, as a downward
glide of the great horned owl.

There was conjecture, then the
giggles, then the plot. Was she
pregnant really or just feeling

The weight? It was late, fleshly
teddies awaited. Yet Marcia did
not protest nor undress that night.

Your head never hit a pillow.
Would you sleep forever?
You were not like that in

The old days, “Her horizons were
different than mine. Nothing
frightened her,” said her sister,

who cold in the earth these fifty
last Decembers, no blood, no
water now, but ash, chest and
knucklebones.

• Rauni is the Finnish goddess associated
  with the mountain ash tree. She is the
  Finnish image of a woman endowed
  with a knowledge of the future.

viii.
We had discussed the New
York parking ritual:
the alternate sides,

That turning over ceremony
comes, in the winter, before
dawn, the hunt precedes

The night for a cherished
spot, the morning rivalry,
transience, and the flow.

Earlier, you’d safety-pinned
a pencilled note to your
husband’s pillow:

“Wake me in the morning at 7,
lover, if I’m parked on the
wrong side of the street.”

But you, Marcia,
you did not park
you chose the

Farther side, the
legal space more
dimly lit. You said,

“Oh, I’m carrying mace,
but I doubt I can use it.”
In the rain and no moon.

Anyhow, the last thing you 
said was. “I will lock
the car door.”

“I felt very vengeful,” her husband said,
“Whether this guy is crazy or not 
is irrelevant.”

ix.
It is long ago now, but Marcia, your
birthday was a time for strawberries
and surprise. Never more.

Oh, I would tear out the eyes of her 

murderer out if I could or dash
his head hundreds of times

Against the wall. Gandhi said,
“You can kill mad dogs.”
Over years we have joined in that

Good fight — gathering signatures,
Petition for the Freeze, march, or

Take Back the Night for what end.

Or lose contact with one another.
Would have been different?
Rauni, you knew; I forgot

To tell you. Her husband said,
“I’m just trying to put myself in
place of whoever did it. It gives

Me some pleasure knowing he
feels hounded.”

x.
The funeral was in the synagogue
where your mother-in-law would
not answer us, beating her

Breasts, starting to fall, moaning.
She has blamed us. If only we
had not talked on and on into

The luscious night, rolled our
tongues over poetry and wine,
rocked our bodies in rhythm

Reveling in our parallels, then
we would never sit here stiff on
shiny black oak behind the mayor,

His head bowed under the ornamentally
jeweled yarmulke. How do we follow?
Her body rigid now in that fine

Carved box at the end of the long
red rug. Marcia had been married
in a sheath of purple and yellow,

Her best colors. As a child, she
always dressed in blue jeans,
loved horses, wore little boys

Shoes, the kind, you know,
with hooves. Then she was
26 and letting her hair grow.

She told us so that night,
her tone hushed. She was
One who stalks her prey.

We put an urn for her in
her box. This is the dust
of little Marcia who,

Recently married, was led
into Persephone’s dark
bedroom, far from home.

We took new-edged blades
To cut in mourning for her
curls of our soft hair.

“The initial thing that attracted me to her
She was so beautiful. She looked so
sophisticated. At first, I was afraid,”

Richard said, describing an Upper East side
party where he and Marcia had met three
years before the end.

She who frigid in the earth these so
many Decembers, no blood no water
now but ash, chest, and knucklebone.

xi.
That dawn the phone rang,
I groped it so many times,
I could not hear all of

What was said, a dull thud, knife
just below my swollen breast.
I thought I would split.

My ripeness opened
pink fluid, dissolved
linen. Just why that

Earth took no notice? They
said don’t see Marcia, so not
to make me sick — tubes,

Respirator. For ten days
my obstetrician prescribed
valium, blank mask for grief.

How could I follow you and
what sacrifice
To return.

You would tell me never more. The
person finding her heard hearsay,
“I was mugged and stabbed.”

Then Marcia passed out.

xii.
She had told us
how she woke at night
craving crosswords.

Unrest can tear at you for
years. On the face of
Mount Shasta under

A certain dappled light
filtered by the firs, we
could be alone, knees

Up toes not touching the ice
fingers gliding under a veil
of shooting stars.

A back leans stiff against
the grey rock. A small bird
flies close by and yellow

Feathers brush a human
shoulder, refuses to sing.
She who in the earth these long

Decembers — not blood not water
now is ash, back, chest, knucklebone.
We will never know the story she is,

Only that in this place, people die,
And do not sleep forever.
A purple mountain reclines.

The granite is alive and in silence, sister.