No, you are not the heart, at least, not yet,
You are not the gluteus maximus or the gluteus medius
or the muscle in the forehead that contracts the scalp.
No. You are the arm that wraps round my shoulder
and presses me to your chest.
You are the strong upper arm
that belts my bottom and makes me beg, No. Meaning yes.
When I wrestle you down, we become an arm.
Let me be more exact.
I become the bicep curl,
you the tricep extension, reaching out to act.
Plan for this poem-in-progress