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.
—by Rita Dove
Nice!
Good to hear from you, Cheryl! Hope the winter hasn’t been too fierce in Maine.
The first Valentine poem: “Madam I’m Adam”
That just about says it all, Barry. What a sweet Valentine’s Day treat to hear from you!
Brilliant!
I especially love that “thick clutch of muscle”!
How beautiful.
Love the love poem!!
Thanks, Bev. I worked up a little introduction, then decided it stood perfectly well on its own!
Thanks, Beverly. I worked up a little introduction, then decided it stood perfectly well — in fact, better — on its own!