Every woman I meet seems named Cathy with a C
or Kathy with a K
I went to your service

Silent Mormons sat in the front row
you had signed the Book
so they found you

Your earthly husband
mine now
sat still as a stele
a few rows back with me
And I
And I
wanted to belly dance
before your urn

possessed by music you’d left
Egyptian and Turkish dances
the doumbek calling me, the zils
I found in your silk purse
between my fingers, where
is my menit-necklace, my sistram?

Your dances too precious to just toss.
No woman would have so many, so many
if not for love