It is not a heart : light, heavy, kind or broken; dear, hard, bleeding or transplanted; it is not a heart.
It is not a brain. The brain, that pound and a half of chicken-colored goo so highly regarded (by the brain itself, that slimy organ to which is attributed such intricate and mysterious powers (it is the self-same brain that does the attributing, the brain is so weak that, without its protective casing, it simply collapses of its own weight. So it could not be a brain.
It is neither a kneecap nor a torso. It is neither a whisker nor an eyeball. It is not a tongue.
It is not a belly button. (the umbilicus serves, then withdraws, leaving but a single footprint where it stood : the navel, wrinkled and cupped, whorled and domed, blind and winking, kissed and bitten, bald and tufted, waxed and fuzzy, bejeweled and ignored; reflecting as graphically as breasts, seeds or fetishes the omnipotent fertility in which Nature dangles her muddy feet, the navel looks in like a plugged keyhole on the center of our being, it is true, but O navel, though we salute your motionless maternity and the dreams that have got tangled in your lint, you are only a scar, after all, you are not it.)
It is not a ribcage. It is not a back. It is not one of those bodily orifices favored for stuffing, not is it the headstrong member with which every conceivable stuffable orifice somewhere, sometime has been stuffed. There is no hair around it. For shame !
It is not an ankle, for her ankles, while bony, were ordinary, to say the least.
It is not a nose, chin or forehead. It is not a biceps, a triceps or a loop-of-Henle.
It is something else.
(Even cowgirls get the blues, Tom Robbins, chapter 1.)