The heart is a potato.

The heart is a potato.
Carried with you, talisman against famine in your breast pocket, pants pocket, skirt pocket, hip pocket, purse.
Next to your body, always warm, as warm as you.
Rough skin against your smooth skin. Pocked. Divots. Stems. Sprouts to be snapped.
You forget it's there. Starchy. Filling. You forget.
Takes heat beneath the sun. Gathers heat inside the oven door.
Its rind crackles, it shudders about to burst.
Cut lightly on the rind and it blossoms and steams out to meet you.
Bready and sweet.
Plastic butter knife in your hand you ask do you want to share?
Cold pat of butter watch it lather and bubble and soak in.
Both are smiling, both of you glad. Dive in! With a fork, never a spoon.
Minutes, hours, weeks, years done.
Cool it down. Cram the fluff back into the casing.
Only you now. Tenderly pack with patience the settling starch.
Barely tug at its skin, pull the lip over the spuddy envelope.
Lick your thumb and run it along the gash's edge.
Press it shut. Does the seal hold?
Back into your pocket.
Run your thumb along the seam when you want.
And you want.