Fofo killed a bird today –
He wants to take it inside
where our family lives,
to play with the sweet thing,
the little animal that’s dying in pain;
Fofo wants to toss the bird from teeth to claws, finish it off
in the place where Nir and I love
to dote on our sweet cat,
holding him between us in a shower of kisses.
My heart does not break that Fofo might be evil;
a perpetrator of harm, a killer, he is,
also a cuddler, one that purrs and adores
running water, playing outside, and having his chin scratched.
In a cat, contradictions aren’t contradictions;
the truth of his whole nature I do not fight,
debate, or disprove on Facebook.
That he’s a killer and a cuddler is what he is
and doesn’t trouble me so, as it does with humans.
That he’s a cat makes it easier to swallow,
the whole of him appearing in nature’s cycle,
coming in and out of balance,
like retracting claws.
My body doesn’t tense, my head doesn’t ache, my jaw doesn’t clench
because he’s not what I think he should be –
I give more grace to cat than human –
I don’t try to control him,
And when he comes home with blood on his face,
I still love him
And I still love myself
And the bird.