It’s neither red nor sweet.

It doesn’t melt or turn over, break or harden,

so it can’t feel pain, yearning, regret.

It doesn’t have a tip to spin on,

it isn’t even shapely—just a thick clutch of muscle, lopsided, mute.

Still, I feel it inside

its cage sounding a dull tattoo:

I want, I want—

but I can’t open it:there’s no key.

I can’t wear it on my sleeve,

or tell you from the bottom of it how I feel.

Here, it’s all yours, now—

but you’ll have to take me, too.