Elegy for Catherine


The snick of windows 
closing; the sudden 
darkness of stilled curtains: 
thirty-eight undertakers
prepare you for burial.

The man who trailed your blood
to the front door of a Queen's brownstone 
paces a cell in Attica, transforms
himself into a philosopher. Secure
in his belief: he has changed the world.

Kitty, you lived
the moment of your death over and over. 
We who survived the night, 
study you in sociology class, debate
the nature of evil, afraid to look
our fellow students in the eye.

We lock our doors, alarm
the car parked in the driveway,
walk only in well-lighted streets
believe these rituals
provide us with immunity. 

We look at your choices,
content ourselves that we would make
different ones. Forty years later 
we are still turning our backs on you.