caught

i am the
angel
that prepares people
to meet god

few of you get it right—
there is a plan, but it’s not
exactly fate.
here in the
birth and ending of people department,
we very rarely know more than a
few years in advance.

i
execute
the plan.
i’ve walked among people
shyly.

as she bounded with her arms across
the monkey bars and swung around with her knees
that let her shirt fall down around her chin
revealing the innocence and sameness of a child’s torso
i planted the small knot of tumor like a seed
in her brain that would slowly begin to
chew away at her
and bring her back

sometimes in this line of work
i get distracted

sometimes as i glide through the air
i cause the scattering of birds or
your kite string to break—

sometimes in the act itself i am caught
in your pictures—
nothing in them but a
faint and hazy orb of light.

self aware

I can’t get behind
poems
that know they are
poems.

when word meets sound
or stop means go
all just to sound like a poem,
I want to gag and scream
to the one who wrote it:

yes, yes, you are good with a pen.
we know.

good ideas are snobs, you know.
the pure ones, I mean.

they waltz in nice rooms and
scoff at cliché.

it takes a poet,
a good one,
to make them stop and
look into the glass that shows their flaws.

to humble them.

to make them soft and real and
above all else unassuming.

snatch it.

I’ve heard that each passing thought,
the ones you forget,
upon realizing that they have no home in your head
begin slowly to wiggle out of your ears,
and poke their noses into the air.

they do not have wings—
you never gave them any.

but sometimes, the brave ones,
the ones that perhaps you should have more fully known,
begin to hum slightly,
vibrating with their tiny inner force.

(that is what makes your ears ring.)

and even more rarely,
this vibration becomes powerful enough that they grow tiny wings
for themselves.

then, they soar, tentatively at first
up into the ether.

they pass by planes,
have sympathy for falling stars,
and walk the tightropes of constellations.

grown-ups cannot see them—but children can.

sometimes they mistake them for rocket ships or
superheroes
or prehistoric birds.

I bet you remember,
lucky child that you were,
knowing that you had caught magic in your butterfly net.

Bella Luna

Justice Marshall McComb, 82, did not contest his wife’s petition to be named conservator of his estate after she told the court her husband is “obsessed with the moon. He gets quite excited about it…. he enjoys it but it’s not a normal enjoyment of the moon.”

She makes me want to bang a hole right in my
ceiling,
or go out to the lake
and look quietly at her broken reflection in the dark water
or strip naked and run my tired feet through the late night dew, arms open and
laughing—

Oh, I’m certain it’s no
man up there—
she’s a Lady.
A Lady, certainly.

It’s obvious, isn’t it? In the way she moves,
steady and silent,
and the slight shadow around her yawning gray eyes
(she wears too much makeup, I think)
and her monthly rage—
the slow fury as she hides her face and turns away into the night

many ignore her absence, don’t even notice—

not me.

I wait for her, every night on the little balcony I made for us
watching for her to slowly turn back,
showing a soft cheekbone first,
then an eye, and then a
corner of her smile—
gentle and open again.

She is an old woman,
but I don’t mind.

I am caught completely
in the fever of her—

It’s all I can do to stop myself
from raising my arms with a
shout,
as she dusts her pale light across my naked legs, the tired skin
and my thin lips and too-dry tongue slowly awaken,

singing in a quiet, poorly accented tremor—


when the moon hits your eye like a big pizza pie,
that’s amore.

Minneapolis, 2010

disappear to Beginning–
that place that can be very easy or very difficult to find
among the heaps of tears and greetings breathless, apologies after,
late dinners and early push to morning
the tangle of days and Memory that any train of thought
must somehow shovel through.

for us, steps retrace to
a finding of Afraid, the slow breath and rushing push
of knowing Vulnerable at once and together
but that wasn’t all, dear.
no– not nearly all of it
because the tracing also leads to

our discovery Joy,
holding fierce to a large black umbrella,
keeping ourselves safe from the
us-imagined storm and us-imagined cloud
as passerby on the busy street hurried along,
casting back looks of snob,
and you took my fingers in your fingers and said in a voice
puffed and pompous and barely your own,
best are the rainy days, don’t you think?
barely hiding a smile,
and I put a hand against your
face and move your mouth -all heat and wet- to mine but
before I do, respond
indubitably, my dear

and we stood
open to the great laugh of the sky,
looking, slowly, down to the knees you seldom knew
outlines vague through the haze of our buzzing thoughts
and roaming hands

before the watches in their constant twirling moved me
Fast and Far,
you still on the street,
peaceful with smile, though incomplete (I know because my smile is not against it–)
and I beat on through the days,
adding more strings and knots to the always-looping Memory

on my knees, and trading joy for sawdust.

a.j.f. pt. 2

this feeling
new, but not exactly sudden
informs each of my movements
(attempting to carve out a little space for myself
and the You I carry with me in the air)

the broadened sway of my hips
and the arc of my arm, grasping at the itch
between my shoulder blades--
the new easiness of my smile, at
strangers, dogs, the lampposts dogs know well, kites, and shapes
in clouds (slowly fading into the ether, trailing behind them all the world's lost thoughts and unremembered dreams of the day before--)

each moment in my too-long/too-short days
remembers your thick, calloused hands and the shocking
softness of your lips

you must understand, it is entirely
your fault--

this becoming, undoing, floating or whatever
the post-coital strut that will not leave my step
that I can't focus on anything at all for more than about
two and a half minutes,
my propensity to touch my own breasts
when I hope no one is looking

this air of you
coursing through my veins
the rest running through my body--

and in my walk,
the quiet pulse between each shifting of my feet--
I love you, I love you, I love you.

shapes and water

tiny beads of water beat slowly
down from the ash-gray canopy
above our heads—
quiet beneath the darkened, dampened trees

lost in dreams of italian coffee shops
and the smell of the northwoods.

your hands push to me
like the muzzle of a new lamb
and though a comedy plays across your mouth
your eyes like plump grapes turn
to me—

full of nothing but the desperate need of close
and want.


I’d call you beloved, darling, but
that’s not quite it.
no, not quite.

I only know that beneath our blanket of sky
disappearing into the ether,
being with you is easier than being
alone

watching the rain come quickly to you like stars
and the moon slowly, shyly,
inch her way

from behind the curtain.

how words are like blowjobs

here’s to the words ugly and
necessary–
they are the janitors of the english language,
the illegal workers grasping at some
task or utility, taking what they can,
bitter, perhaps, but resigned.

because, really, where is there a good synonym for
‘Twelfth’?

I would first like to welcome
Moist
the herald of heat and bringer of
mild discomfort,
an irritation but not a pest–
a perfect word
the discomfort of the vowels in your mouth
match the sensation of skin
just a little too wet and
just a little too sticky.

and then there is
Melt
as in “I’d like a tuna–”
or “it’s so hot I’m going to–”

and all the Rural Gals caught up in a
Leech-infested Pond

the Goiter, the
Phlegm and the Squat

they are the heroes, the martyrs
and every excellent girlfriend

accepting an unpleasant sensation in the mouth
to perform what they must.

equinox

as our year pulls toward equal night and day
my aching brain is halved and ripped in two--
which is the only nature of late september, isn't it?

[the slant of your nose
and look of sleeping
the feet and hands quiet
the touch of your knees my knees--]

the trees flush in cool air--
the type to make your skin rise and gasp in tiny goosebumps--
spilling fire into the leaves and bursting
to an eventual cascade
as pollen begins to churn somewhere inside,
preparing for solstice

[your torso pushed to mine and dancing
all lips and lush and gentle lapping
subtle and unapologetic as your
fingers weave in my hair, pull and--]

it is autumn
the man in the moon has taken to blushing.

[thoughts of you warm like sunbathing
naked--
my loneliness has not changed, darling.
you only christened it.]

(minneapolis)throb

breathe me
up
and set me lightly
with hot whispers and the
smell of your swelling thought,
pressed beneath heaps of secret and unsure--

lead me down and
hold onetwothreefourfive
as you grasp me sudden--
-quiet.-

*

air pours slowly through
the city-square window
in its split-parts

the tremor of arguments
in spanish trumpeted
and the fuckyou bleating of car horns

and somewhere
coon topples
garbage can

it all shrieks with the apathy
of city folk--
-do what you will, we don't give a flying fuck.-

*

so darling run me
through--
feel my arching pulse releaseandgasp

to reach the thought-ghost
swirling around and through my
temples

land lightly
speak softly
(andthewhole big stick
thing)

place fingers on
complete me it's
all it's nothing is all

but a final
yes.

-------

A note: I've been experimenting lately with trying to make less sense in my writing. I think I tend to be very overt with what I want to say. It's a nice style, and I like it very much, but I figured I'd try on a different hat for this one.

The composition of this was very much inspired by the writing on this site. It's put together by an extremely talented writer and very dear friend, and I have imitated her style poorly.

splat.

his little beak
slightly ajar on its rusty hinge--
wings splayed as though the victim
of the tiniest crucifixion

barely-clawed bird toes curled and
withering
like the striped stocking-feet
of the witch of the east.

amazed,
my eyes lurch slightly from their sockets

the impossibly small body intact
(aside from the snapped spine
and thin threads of blood)

still pressed
--held there by the congealing
of his own caked blood--
to the grill
of your rust-worn truck.

he has been there for two weeks.

open minded

I like to unscrew my crown,
ease it off slowly, small fingers grip
just above my ears
and unravel the looping gray tendrils
of my brain
casting them out like a
slightly spongy
lasso.

sometimes the strands catch
wandering thoughts
hanging lightly in the air--

other times they slap the unsuspecting
birds in their trajectories
with a mighty th-whock! and knock them
clean out of the sky

occasionally they come between lovers lipping goodbye--
those are the nights I dream of sex.

mostly I just like to let them sit
and soak in the smells and sound
of the softly throbbing ground-beat--

which is the only how
on the way to know,

isn't it?

a.j.f.

because i am in
(irreversibly) love with you

every arc of movement
or whispering gesture demands of my body
new consciousness

because beforeyou and afteryou
are rooms that don't quite touch,
and no matter how wide or far I cast
the unraveling ash-gray tendrils of my brain

my earth is not the same
and I cannot touch the other

labor

Every morning at 6am
as my feet slip snug into my steel-toed boots

my ankles shout which sort of day it will be

On a good one I am resigned
to my hands and feet and back
muscles will ache
bones may bend
as the sun beats and beats and beats into our brains--

Worse are the days that drag.
On those I consider adopting religion simply to pray for rain

or perhaps and accident.
A minor one.

A broken wrist so they can't
make me hammer make me
pull make me
lift anymore.

One day it comes.

as I heave over the ladder's crown
something shifts
anditjolts anditslips andifall--
limbs a tangle in the rungs and the
breathless feeling of flight, impossible to discern from the
breathless feeling of falling

and I, my sack of flesh and sticks, hit.

Stand slowly, unharmed
though blood churns beneath the skin and colors much of me
purple

back to it, now

and out we march
to the seeping of sweat
and rank slap of setting tar.

I say "yes"

and all at once
he breaks over me like
a wave--
all rush and wet and gentle lapping,
the slight saltiness, too
when I miss and my tongue catches
the whisper of dried sweat on
the soft skin surrounding

the muscle also finds the milky wall of teeth
and lopes softly across it,
unsure technique
and chin pushes tiny needle-hairs against
my chin and cheeks

and he arches back
my mouth still full of his feeling,
craning for the rest and he says
try this.

with the deft movement of a snake through water
one arm around my waist, hand inches past spine,
other arm between us, hand snug just beneath my breasts and cupping
my rib cage

and silently, the soft press of the velvet of lips to
my mouth,

and he breathes into me--
exhaling
long
and
slow

guiding my ribcage with his mute hands
to take in the heat

through the delirium of lips and teeth he smiles
now a part of my body and

coursing through my blood

writing

the poetic moment is not difficult.
it is the thing that catches your eye,
the one that may find you while gardening
or eating or fucking.

it could be the creeping moss on the side of
and abandoned building
or the glint of a cymbal over the
shaded drum

a gnats wings caught on the softly vibrating
strings of a piano

the presence of a dearly loved body
that is slowly creating a slight depression in your bed,
or the equally beautiful absence

the notebook writings of a student clearly
trying too
hard.

find it.

snatch it.

make it into ink soaking a page or
pixels on a screen or
whatever people do--

but most of all, look for it.
open your eyes so wide your lashes brush the ceiling and floor.
throw yourself into the thick of experience,
love what scares you

but just look for it.
no matter how tiny,
it will find you--

even if your soul catches it before your head.

how to be alone, pt. 1

first,
stop leaving room on the nightstand for
him to put his things.

do not be afraid to take the softer side of
the bed
in fact, spread yourself like a starfish.
teach your limbs that they can reach out to their
greatest limit--
no other flesh will stop their march to the
edge.

you may set up a pillow near you to
hold your arm around and
perhaps stroke gently,

but you are by no means allowed
to make sexual advances on that
pillow.

and when you wake up in the morning,
take pride in the rank breath churning in your mouth.
breathe heavily and freely.

he will not
complain.

after it

I remember the soft tangle of the careworn
sheets around your ankles
and the movement of my fingertips across
the plane of your back
slow like reading

how your jaw hooks into a subtle underbite when I'm
turningyouon
and you call me
woman

the ease of being with you,
our hands brushing almost unconsciously
hands that announce
we are each others,
he is mine and i am his but also
he is he and i am i and
we are for it all, and together

also the shift in feeling
of not being with you--
the long stretches pressing the phone to my cheek,
so long that it leaves a slight imprint of your voice
on my skin,

the little notes you left in my books

the postcards that either fill completely or
remain blank, except for a single tiny thought or idea--
like the rise of mountains and how it's really
more a sadthing than a triumphantthing, the earth crashing like that,
don'tyouagree?
or to tell you about the row of birds on the telephone wire like beads of
dew strung together on a thin thread,
huddled together

our conversations pulsing beneath
their little feet.

on.

they say that time isn't linear--
we only perceive it as such.

so maybe in some small corner of the cosmos,
nesting in the holes comets make in the sky, perhaps,
I will always be there with you

in that too-hot room with the
too-soft bed and the
too-firm pillows,
with the silent velvet of your lower lip
beneath my thumb
and the occasional brushings and minglings
of our feet as the immigrant children next door
perch nervously on their new used bicycles

it's comforting to know
that the universe knows even my tiniest of moments,
knew them from the very beginning
and keeps them in little glass jars,
row upon row upon row
things I may forget mingling with others
I will never know and others
that I couldn't forget if I beat my brain raw

and even though I'm strapped nervously and
somewhat unwillingly to the
arrow Time,
it's only a trick of the mind,
the idea
that we are moving
at all.

the things that will always make me think of you, for better or worse

there's the way light falls across skin
as it swims through the shades of a slatted window
and the dark, quiet smell
of the most secret parts of you

ceiling fans and silk sheets

the feeling of rain-wet hair,
heavy, curling with the humidity,
and clinging to my neck and forehead

the low resonance
of a deep baritone

(the songs: in my life, the curse, mrs. robinson,
the cave, we won't run, mama you've been on my mind,
annie's song)

anything that anyone's built for themselves
will inevitably draw my mind to the shadowy place
in the deep north woods
that we built for ourselves

that sensation of gentle spinning,
mixed with the slightest nausea--
the feeling of falling in love with you.

it's possible that these ties will fray,
wear thin,
perhaps even break.

but I know without doubt
that somewhere ages and ages and ages hence,
one of these tiny fragments of a memory
will work its way back into my consciousness--

when I catch the scent of something
vaguely like you
I'll sway in place as my eyes roll back
and the cup of coffee will slip from my grasp
and shatter around the toes you always thought
were stubby.

heat

these are the days
of damp hair and mussed sheets,
the intoxication of scent and sound
as they seep into my skin

every gesture is heavy,
moving slowly through the
thickened air that
catches our words and holds them still
so that we can pause and truly understand them

the tips of my fingers push gently across
the plane of your nails
and up your forearm with its constantly
surprising amount of fur

and slowly I learn what it is to be
completely with someone--
no distractions.
only this.

Knitting

Another family gathering with Helen and Rob.

He straightens his tie in the mirror and surveys the couches and tables and plates of carefully arranged hors d'oeuvres. Everything is ready. She already knows that everything is ready. She sits quietly in her favorite chair, with the careworn seat and armrests. An unobtrusive pile of yarn rests against her toes as the needles twist and spin in her small hands.

The men and women and children tightly wrapped in their snowsuits push in from the cold, all varying degrees of fashionable in their lateness. They shoulder their way into the room, and position themselves as best as they can in front of the cheese plates. As more bodies enter, the room warms. Rob waves his arms and gestures warmly, sharing and receiving stories with the finesse of a skilled entertainer. He skirts about the room on nimble toes, moving from group to group, dazzling all. Helen watches with sharp eyes and a soft smile over her slowly growing tea cozy.

She is no diva. She does not need the focus of all those eyes and aimless gestures. Her movement, like her speech, is small and calculated. Certainly, when the friends and family say their goodbyes and shuffle out, leaving only slushy little puddles behind them, they will warmly discuss how much fun that Rob is, and how splendid a host.

"But that Helen," they say, "She's sharp as a tack."

bodies.

This was meant to be my writing, but I could never say it better than him.

i like my body
e.e. cummings

i like my body when it is with your
body. It is so quite a new thing.
Muscles better and nerves more.
i like your body. i like what it does,
i like its hows. i like to feel the spine
of your body and its bones, and the trembling
-firm-smooth ness and which I will
again and again and again
kiss, i like kissing this and that of you,
i like, slowly stroking the, shocking fuzz
of your electric fur, and what-is-it comes
over parting flesh...And eyes big love-crumbs,

and possibly i like the thrill
of under me you quite so new

the boy from tanzania

shoes much too big
hang loosely onto his little feet,
the laces wrapped around his ankles.

the village is small,
and the very large sneakers make it hard for him
to join in the dancing,

but why should it bother him?

he is six and a half years old
(practically a man already)
he has almost all of his teeth

and most of the other children
cut their calloused feet
as they join the circle
dark arms and pale palms
raised to the sun.

not time.

I remember your body perfectly--
your thick, smooth hands
the wideness of your ribs
the hairs on your chest that left their
curled imprint on my cheek--

your voice, too,
as we lay with the light crawling slowly
out your window
and you sang in a soft, husky tremor
that made even your floor lamp
lean in to listen more closely--
the intonation of your speech,
with laughter pulsing behind nearly
every word

but, somehow,
your face is only a flash in my memory
one instant, there is your smile
then I bring out your eyes,
the ears that you won't let me kiss
the widow's peak that worries you--

but these bits don't fit together,
and I am at a loss
trying to remember your face.

the night of the storm

driving through the pebbles of rain
hurled from the raging sky,
a tree stands illuminated by the
electricity
in the air--

the silhouette folds into itself,
the branches bent
like the posture of an old man
who has borne the heft of loneliness
for far too many years.

and, in a moment the length of a bee's stinger,
it vanished again--
melting into the surrounding expanse
of darkness.

10 straight hours of painting later

there's a specific kind of ache
that seeps into the sinews and bones
after a day of real labor.

and the engulfing plush of the easy chair
feels so much better than ever before,
the ice water like wine--

and you slip into the confusion
of pleasure and pain,
before it all comes again--

7am. sharp.

finally.

I've been away from this for way too long. There are a lot of days to make up for. I'll get on that soon. This one is by no means complete, but I've done what I can with it for now. What's left is to let it rest, be on it's own for a while, gather up all the meaning that other people will give it (that I may or may not intend), and finally, edit it.

--

getting lost

the movement of the trees around me
as they shifted in the breeze
and pushed outwards into their larger selves
pounded into my consciousness--
kept me completely
there.

when I think about it,
I can still feel your
fingers
snaking slowly around my thigh--
your fingertips across my skin like rain

in that tiny wink of time
(with you)
I was,
for the first time I can remember,
living through every sense and more
more more more more more

little fin.

He takes a few tentative steps. Turns. "Bye-bye, kay-dee!"
"Bye-bye, Fin."
Two more. A small stumble. He turns, smiles. "Bye-bye, kay-dee!"
"Bye-bye, Fin."
The call and response delights him. His small shoes move him away, but after only a few more wiggles towards his front door, "Bye-bye, kay-dee!"
"Bye-bye, Fin."
And I know he's going to get big, learn how to have conversations, have moments of sadness, terror, angst, and (particularly when he hits puberty) experience painful awkwardness, but in these moments, he is a simple fellow. He knows what makes him happy, and he goes for it-- again and again.
"Bye-bye, kay-dee!"
"Bye-bye, Fin."

wheat

the calm green velvet of the fields of wheat
stretches out to the horizon from the tips of my toes
silently swaying
announcing that there is nothing
to worry over
or to hate

everything is
quiet.

everything is
in the exact right nook of the universe
at this exact moment.

and that's all.

minneapolis skyline

the city
can't possibly be real--
the impossible immensity of it

it's a cardboard backdrop, certainly--
and the pigeons flying innocuously overhead
will take it in their filthy little toes,
and lift it away

vicodin

vicodin
is like a
calm dream, that lulls me to sleep,
over the moon and
diverts my attention from poetry,
innocuous, but it forces my
neglect.

(hopefully I'll be back to 100% soon)

sleep

it's heavy--
a little like dreaming,
and a little like death.

but it's warm
as tiny little cats
curling up and
falling asleep
on my eyelids.

and it's slow.
slow as molasses running
down my body
from my head to my shoulders
and along every limb
until

I am engulfed by it.

Well...

I got a concussion last night.
I'm going to retroactively give myself a night off for then, and add another one tonight.

-Katie

what I wondered today, pt. 1

what if the stars were actually
LED backlit watches,
suspended in the sky,
trying to give us the time
several billion years late?

like billy pilgrim,
we could be unstuck in time
looking increasingly farther back into the past
for the stars that get further and further away.

that would mean that the watch I saw
broken, and lying limp in the street
was not a lost watch

but a meteorite.

elms

today, I saw a tree
shatter.

we slung the noose around it's neck
as gently as you please,
and after a gouge or two,
pulled it to the ground.

the thwack was tremendous.
each bough shuddered with the rebound,
and the smaller branches broke

scattering like birds
into the clean blue air.

the tree was as old as I am.

delinquency=two poems

ella

today, she took
everything that I've worked for
and made it smaller--
she looked at me
from her very minimal height,
and with grave eyes, asked:

"do they still let you
color
in college?"


daisies

from the lemon drop of a center,
the petals reach out
as if to embrace one another--

dew clings to some

within each one is an entire world--
channels and filtration systems and
reproductive organs
(though I would argue that ours are
more fun)

it is this pot of individual,
intermingling little worlds
that greets my waking eyes
every morning.

it prepares me
for my own.

the singer

I watched you tonight,
you know.

your hands were wrapped around
the microphone
as if in prayer,

then, a momentary connection--
your eyes like heat
like passages to a dark place, surrounded by white light--

and your neck craned up in pleasure
lips parting slightly

and now, I'm searching for the poetic moment
the meaning of the words rushing out,

but truly, I think it is only
you.

bonfire

the smoke spins away from the flame
like a dervish--
frantically, desperately,
finally

but notice-- as it
arcs away from the immediate
dome of heat,
it slows.

the further it sails away, the
longer it takes to go
until the moment when it begins
to fade from sight

and it appears to be straining
to go backwards.

goodnight moon

the black ink of night
creeps in through my window,
staining and dampening
the drywall--

the loonsong makes its way in also.
it punches little holes in the screen
and loops over itself
and spins silently on the floor.

my bed is nothing but a boat--
carrying me through the liquid night
that is slowly collecting
on my carpeting.

thc

I will remember sitting on the lake
suspended in it by the little boat
with his hot fingers just inside me and
his arm against my throat and thinking
this is not how I'm supposed to feel.

all things go

driving this fast,
I imagine what it would look like if the vehicle were invisible—
just our bodies in a seated position,
propped against nothing,
streaking through the night.

the moon’s great laugh surfaces on the horizon
beneath the stars,
her closest (albeit very far away) friends,
those messengers
several billion years late

and we make our way
home—
snaking through the silent animals of the trees
and driving through clouds

summertime

I remember
lying with you
our bodies carving a space for themselves
in the summer air
the sun that pressed into our skin

I almost felt I could see
the grass growing--
straining upwards
to touch you

I remember
the narrow strip of your already-tanned flesh
emerging between your blue jeans and
white t-shirt
and the closeness of our hands--

how we mirrored each other's movements--
I shift to my side, you
face me
you turn to give your pale green eyes to the sun, I
echo your motion

but like mirrored images,
we cannot, do not, and
never touch

fat cats

whoever came up with the term
clearly has not met mine.

she waddles about
somewhat helplessly on
impossibly tiny feet--
feet the women of ancient china
would go bonkers for.

her belly sways to the off-beat
of her body's motion
and pulls at her spine
in the middle,
bending it down
into a permanent arch.

she is not "cool."

the only influence she exerts
is over me,
when her pathetic mews
and the relentless butting of her head
finally move me
to scratch just under
her little chin.

this cat is proof
of the lack of trust
you can place in idiom.