POLICE IDENTIFY WOMAN FOUND DEAD IN D.C. ZOO'S LION EXHIBIT
WASHINGTON, March 7, 1995 - A woman found dead in the lions' pen at the National Zoo over the weekend was identified as an Arkansas resident with a history of mental-health problems.
A Metropolitan police detective said yesterday that the woman, whose body was discovered early Saturday morning by a zookeeper, was Margaret Davis King, 36, of Little Rock. A homeless mother of three suffering from schizophrenia, she had come to Washington with the apparent intent of getting back the custody of her children. Having spent the day in a fruitless effort to obtain the information she sought from a government clerk, who was bewildered by her calm but bizarre behavior, she took herself to the National Zoo, scaled the three and half-foot fence that surrounded the lion enclosure, lowered herself down a nine foot wall, swam the moat that further separated the lions from visitors to the Zoo and climbed onto the grassy terrace where the lions normally fed. When discovered by a zoo worker the following morning, her arms and hands had been gnawed off and bite marks covered her body. The medical examiner listed the cause of death as “sharp-and blunt-force injury associated with massive blood and soft tissue loss” and ruled the death a suicide.
'The Woman at the Washington Zoo'
The saris go by me from the embassies.
Cloth from the moon. Cloth from another planet.
They look back at the leopard like the leopard.
And I. . . .
This print of mine, that has kept its color
Alive through so many cleanings; this dull null
Navy I wear to work, and wear from work, and so
To my bed, so to my grave, with no
Complaints, no comment: neither from my chief,
The Deputy Chief Assistant, nor his chief—
Only I complain. . . . this serviceable
Body that no sunlight dyes, no hand suffuses
But, dome-shadowed, withering among columns,
Wavy beneath fountains—small, far-off, shining
In the eyes of animals, these beings trapped
As I am trapped but not, themselves, the trap,
Aging, but without knowledge of their age,
Kept safe here, knowing not of death, for death—
Oh, bars of my own body, open, open!
The world goes by my cage and never sees me.
And there come not to me, as come to these,
The wild beasts, sparrows pecking the llamas' grain,
Pigeons settling on the bears' bread, buzzards
Tearing the meat the flies have clouded. . . .
Vulture,
When you come for the white rat that the foxes left,
Take off the red helmet of your head, the black
Wings that have shadowed me, and step to me as a man:
The wild brother at whose feet the white wolves fawn,
To whose hand of power the great lioness
Stalks, purring. . . .
You know what I was,
You see what I am: change me, change me!
- Randall Jarrell (circa 1960)