If You Said She Wore Her Heart on Her Sleeve

You could say that she was the sleeve,
she was the entire shirt, and she would give it
off her back. You didn’t need to ask, just tremble
in her direction. She was your cotton blouse in summer
and wool sweater in winter, a raincoat if the day
brought a real deluge. She would be nothing at all,
if that was your wish—unbutton herself, take flight
off the clothesline in a kind wind. You could sit
like a lump of coal in her flame until, star-bright,
you tumbled upwards through her chimney. So few of us
have had such a fire on demand. She was a window
you could enter or leave—leave her tofu and tomatoes
and bags of apricots. Leave her air mattress and electric blanket
and Ivory soap. Leave her Isotoner slippers and rubber boots—
or not, because she would give you her shoes, too.
You could leave these things for the next welcome beggar.
You could leave, but you would never stop needing
that heart, that shirt. That one true sleeve.