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.