I won’t lie, it hurt, that “knife 
of never letting go,” but I filled my lungs
with resolve and made the first cut, 

carving the smallest piece 
from that tender organ 
with gentleness and precision

as it pounded its agreement–
this is a suitable offering
to the land that gave us ourselves.

I refused to use a shovel
to move the dirt and stone.
Only hands plunged into the earth

could prepare a proper plot
in which to sink this sliver of
glad muscle, tissue, and nerves.

I dug and dug, the dirt
driven beneath my nails 
with every scrape and pull of earth,

until I was satisfied and settled 
that yielding fragment among the soil, 
dense with minerals and time.

I felt the pang immediately–the steady,
silent sting of a heart split between
where it has been and where it is going.

It has never fully gone away–
like the ache of a phantom limb. 
Which was the point to begin with.