Sliver

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—                         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.