Heart to Heart
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.
Notes
Where Walt Whitman looked up into the cosmic night to escape dry classroom diagrams, Rita Dove strips romance of its red velvet mythologies, reducing the human heart down to its stubborn, biological reality: a muscular fist of meat and salt pumping blindly in the dark. The speaking subject dismantles the sentimental commodity of love to confront the unadorned real, recognizing that genuine intimacy begins only when we stop projecting grand symbolic illusions onto a vessel that simply refuses to stop beating. It anchors September’s theme of Echo in the rhythm of vital recurrence, reminding us that devotion is not an immaculate fairytale, but a steady, unglamorous cadence that returns to us pulse after pulse, enduring long after the decorative words have faded. #September #RitaDove #Love #Heart #Poetry