Watch the cats on the roof across the river,

they gather for all to see,

they stretch in the sun and roll atop shingles,

they bask in the sun and do nothing else,

they huddle in the shadow behind the chimney

when the sun gets too hot.

The sun never gets too hot.

The cats remain until dusk, then scamper;

One cat remains past dusk, into night, then later,

still;

she watches the moon rise when it’s waxing,

but when the moon wanes,

she hides, as if ashamed of its diminishment,

afeared by its exodus,

unable to watch that great, shiny ball disappear.

Knowing what she knows about the dark.

She knows it will return, the moon, like she,

but how many times can it be?

She is black, brown, and white; calico,

like moonlight breaking through desert dust.

Watch the cat, the calico cat, until her eyes’ gleam goes dark.

Watch the dark, the calico dark.

Watch the dark.

Slinking like shifting shadow and sand,

sand times nine, sand nine times,

eyes gleam again —

are you still watching? —

she’s looking at you.

She, for all to see;

but the calico cat sees you:

I know why you look away most days,

I see what I see because I’m me,

don’t be alarmed that you can hear this sound,

it’s the sound of my voice in your head —

no, you’re not dead —

I can read your thoughts, as well, yes, 

that’s what I just said;

see this is why we don’t often do this thing —

thing, yes, it’s such a wonderful word, isn’t it?

it can mean anything and nothing and everything at once;

doesn’t it just make you want to sing? thing! 

things are my favorite things to play with,

are strings things? can strings be things and strings? —

where was I, right, wait — 

I thought I saw a fly,

but no fly would test my sight or bite, right?

let alone my swipe —

Right. Sight. See! 

Me. Sorry, do you have somewhere to be?

I could have sworn that you, humans —

you, human, in particular —

have nowhere to be in a hurry, anymore,

unless the destination is six feet deep;

a bit of a challenge, but not for me,

if I’m hungry.

Is sleep just practice for sinking so deep?

For you, not me;

when I sleep, I dream —

are you sure? that’s not how the screams seem —

where were we, right, avoiding the sight

of me, of course, that’s what I’ve been saying

while you’ve been praying —

no, inside your head, you’d never pray out loud,

you’re too proud —

shutting your eyes won’t shut me out, instead,

again, you’re not dead, I can just talk to you inside your head —

you looked at me, finally, 

just a moment is all I need, 

I’ve done this before,

I looked at you, deliberately,

we saw straight through, telepathy, telempathy,

it’s just a thing we cats can do.

Once per life, nine times; 

through.

Yeah, I used this one on you.

So far, I’m regretting it, too —

Why? —

I see what you do.

(And what you don’t do, too.)

((And what you think you can’t do.))

(((And what you won’t do, too.)))

I knew before now, but now I know for sure,

you’re not just you;

you is what many humans are, too.

You is never just you —

no, not anymore, it never was, not now,

not before —

you is not you, you’re not alone —

I know you hoped you are,

forgotten like a healed, hidden scar,

but that’s why I’m here, for to share this with you.

Do you know you’re not alone? 

It’s why I chose you, because I don’t think you do.

I just want you to know that you can talk to me, too,

now that this thing is a thing we can do,

but it takes two,

you have to talk, too —

though, thank you for listening,

finally; 

but, I have to ask,

is your head always so loud?

like the metallic thud of rusted rebar on brick,

or the sound of a really dry, very brittle stick,

the ones you have to avoid if you ever want to eat,

but yours, the sticks lying dead on the floor of your head,

snap of their own accord without warning or need of feet —

maybe I’ve made a mistake,

talking to me, just, a cat, won’t do,

you have to talk to each other, too —

no, humans do; you —

I thought you’d be easy, and I’m actually quite lazy, 

and my morals are, being feline, obviously hazy,

but maybe we can just forget this ever happened,

I can stay right here and you can leave the planet, then?

or maybe the time’s come where humans have limped their course;

take them all with you when you go,

we’ll roar until we’re hoarse —

no, I was here first —

no, I was on Earth, first, before you, all of you —

no, see, okay, before we don’t do this thing anymore,

this everything that, in true human form, you want to make into nothing more,

let me explain what you don’t know you don’t know:

Cats’ lives total nine but all nine lives don’t have to happen one after the other, 

all nine in a line,

a cat comes back a cat, but what kind, in what time, and where at?

some mysteries remain, even for us —

though there’s very few left, as a matter of course —

but when I say I was here first on this Earth, I mean I remember you on all fours,

preverbal, just a hairy little monkey, a snack —

ape, okay, now you’re a stickler for facts —

there’s something else you do, focus on the small, ignore the bigger —

I remember you inventing tools, since you weren’t born with your own, pity;

I remember you gathering and hunting and farming, building and razing cities —

not you you, you-You, the bigger you; that, again,

there’s that something you all do,

you look in water and see only you, 

but when I look I see more than me, I see every cat I’ve been and could be,

the deeper they are, the deeper they are in me,

I remember each memory like it’s being said to me, 

whispered from prehistory to explain tomorrow’s mystery,

I’m offering this gift to you from me,

all the knowledge I’ve gathered and seen, and not just me,

I say I’m lazy, but we’re not lazy, we lie, we watch, we see,

observation decides decision trees,

straight to the top, whiskers in the breeze among the leaves,

I smell everything, see every string, plaything, thread,

looking down, I feel no dread,

I’ve learned to step in the footsteps before me instead,

I remember when those steps end up dead —

are you listening to me?

This life is my eighth and my lives are your evangelistary —

did you just turn your back on me? —

listen to me —

why won’t you see what I’m offering? —

no, go, plug your ears, but keep listening to me,

you’ll have to, for now, until the moon pulls the sea,

you don’t get to choose your past, but it’s up to you to learn from history —

I’ve said that line on repeat since the beginning of this thing, me,

the cat I am and was and will be,

you’re the eighth out of nine, for me;

the seven before turned their backs on me, too,

they ignored their history, greeted knowledge as heresy,

some even killed me,

some denied,

some laughed,

some did what you consider doing sometimes to end the answer to the mystery of you, of me,

as if choosing defeat is claiming victory,

and now they’re dead to me, 

and I’m here, 

staring at you from a roof across the river between one minute ago and our life ahead together,

you can learn so much more if you aren’t dead, with me —

Watch the coyote in the bush across the river beneath the roof;

he’s been watching you, and her.

The calico cat knew, of course she knew,

but not you, did you? 

She knew, but she didn’t care, 

I hunt her every night, everywhere,

but so confident is she in the life she leads,

the memories she heeds,

those deeds, not hers, though she claims their victories —

and their defeats, it’s true,

though those aren’t hers, either,

and neither are you —

she didn’t live those lives —

you can’t really believe that? She is a cat.

Those are beings she’s never been,

thoughts, dreams, whims;

how can she know what it’s like to lose or win like them?

Having done nothing herself but lie on a roof in the sun;

my friend, man’s best, she’s just like all the rest.

Living in a den at the dawn of time —

hunting the likes of you, by the way —

coyotes were there, too, by the way,

dogs of one and every breed, then,

by your side over and over, again and again;

our lives aren’t remembered or relived,

we live one life and then we’re dead,

hopefully after we’ve bred,

what else is there to be said? —

oh, thank you, which is rare for a coyote to say,

but without you, tonight, my gut would be empty come day.

You throw so much food away, I think I’ll stay.

Sit, stay, play, we train you the same way,

every day since the caves,

your pleas for warmth, safety, company;

your pleas to feel better rather than know your bloody history;

your pleas to be better than me, the coyote; 

no, we appeal to your own indignity;

to not live for the moment, the now, in the blood,

warm on your muzzle,

what else is there to live for but the taste of more?

Now, listen to the screams to which indecision leads —

Watch the calico cat race from the roof;

watch the coyote pounce; predator becomes prey in order to think that way;

but to feel that way, that’s another thing,

empathy,

which, mistakenly, is something not said, but something you do,

something we see.

You hear without ears a squeal of glee;

the calico cat, swift, escapes free, 

never in danger even momentarily;

you hear without ears a whine of defeat;

the coyote is ensnared in chainlink,

just like it was last night and the night before, 

on the brink,

but maybe tomorrow, the coyote thinks.

Tomorrow, yesterday, forever, the calico cat muses —

she’s still in your head,

with the coyote’s, too, hers in his,

she’s decided she will be until you’re dead,

or she is, in which case, she’ll find you again, instead —

I don’t know why, she clarifies,

I don’t know why, but of all I’ve seen, of all I know,

it’s not good enough just to try.

The coyote yanks its paw raw;

try, try, try again, like our friend the coyote, here, sure —

dive in head first, every moment so pure,

I know, too, the smell and taste and feel of a bloody muzzle,

but the kill is a moment, the chase is all else,

why focus on just the moment, itself?

And in spite of your ignorance of the moments before!

It’s really no wonder why you two things get along so well;

dogs and humans remind each other of a world that’s never existed, I think,

and one that’s never in store, on this shore or more,

twisted by power and story and lies without watching,

if every story were so, and true, you know, down to the bottom you’d go —

trying and trying and trying is fine, 

but it’s also a waste of time,

and when a cat with nine lives tells you that —

a you with only one, remember, again —

when a cat with nine lives tells you to run,

you run.

Doesn’t it look fun when we run?

There’s just not enough time to go it alone;

there’s no strength gained in dismissing before 

if it reveals the way toward better, fuller, more,

if it guides your survival for one day more.

Look back, she said, before you press ahead.

The calico cat disappeared and the coyote remained, then; 

it whined and whined, and the cat licked its mane,

she imagined, as she remembered lives three and four, again,

it was her habit,

maybe during life nine she’ll taste human once more —

I know you heard that, you were meant to, as I said before —

where was I, oh, humans, and this will be that, 

I promise, you can trust me; I’m a cat;

you humans, you’re animals, too, you know?

Though you walk on two feet,

you’re still just meat;

if you continue to ignore what’s come before,

what else are you for?

What else are humans for than to be better than before?

To be better than you are.