Sledgehammered eighteen inches through hemlock roots—surveyor's men sink rebar flush with the ground— a legal stake hostaging the boundaries of my life—
All triangulation and number, GPS assisted, true as an atomic clock—with scientific jargon inked in equations and proven formulas. I do not doubt
the accuracy of the surveyor's angle, letters of the law. As an agentof the state, he declares there can be no common ground—
He knows the discrepancy, my thirty-five years'residence in the county deed book—he bullies with his perfection— It is but a sliver—a long acute angle—and of a few marginal feet—yet an insult a break-in— a trespass— [End Page 102] a bludgeoning by an arrogant man—I request that the iron be removed—he doubts it will go anywhere—
After many messy months, I have paid again for what I own— I pry and yank out that rapier— hoping the land heals as best as it can,without a scar. [End Page 103]
Frederick Wilbur has authored three books on architectural and decorative woodcarving, and two poetry collections, As Pus Floats the Splinter Out and Conjugation of Perhaps, (forthcoming from Main Street Rag Publishing). His work has appeared in many print and online reviews. He is poetry editor for Streetlight Magazine.