In Honor of Mo Who is our Cat, and We are Hers

In Honor of Mo Who Is Our Cat, and We Are Hers

First we heard her heart,
a motor larger than her small mew self;
it filled her up, then us
when we touched.
And then the room
and everything in the room:
the couch, the windows, the door
and eventually every room in the house
and the yard
and beyond the yard to many years
of our lives—
This Mo
revealed herself a hunter:
of mouse
of roaches and any crawling thing
of birds
(most she could not catch and we
—the birds and us—were grateful)
of sunlight,
dog and plant leaf,
feet under blankets,
cords, wires
and laps and even computers—
This Mo became the first to answer every door
and greet every visitor from beyond
especially those who dislike cats—
(those she greets most heartily
she has a sense of humor).
This Mo of catdom
in the winter grows
a stunning Siamese stole
she cleans daily to a shine
and gleam
and in the summer sheds it all
and stalks the house and yard
dressed ratty
in a jacket she still cleans
with fruitless effort—
This catward, forward Mo has weathered
the come and go of houses, dogs
and humans, the dragging her
and chasing her, and the
stealing of birds from the dominion of her
crying into her fur with her—
We know her as Mo: short for motor,
more better, more cat soul
per square or round inch—
most appreciative we are, and more.

Joy Harjo