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.
Written by Rita Dove
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