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.