When, after nine months gestation,
the cat you brought home from
your mother’s house after she died
decides that you are, for better or worse,
his person—

though he still runs when you walk
through the house, but will come to you
when you sit on the floor and waggle
the feather boa on a stick in his direction,

and at night, when you lie in bed reading,
he hops up with a small cry, walks across you,
and arranges himself on a pillow on your right side
conveniently positioned for skritches
around his head and shoulders,

and periodically climbs the stack of pillows
on which you rest and winds himself around
your head like a big furry crown, extending
one long front leg alongside your face—

how could you feel anything but chosen?