Amputation

The ring:
old,
greened turquoise,
thick silver,
craftsman-signed.

The finger:
swollen,
mangled and pustulent,
thick with infection,
shot through with pain.

When they said
they’d have to cut
the ring from me,
I said,
“take the finger.
It’s not as important
as the heritage that ring
carries…”

But they cut it
anyway. Cut deep into 
corrupt flesh,
dug under the shank
and cut it
anyway.

The band on my hand new to the fresh air,
the blood flowing,
the anesthetic distancing me 
from the pain;

still I bawled like a baby,
like a victim of massacre,
like a lost tribe,
like a ghost being cast out.

They gave me
the bloody split ring
to keep and pray
over and handle while thinking
repair and hope and then sinking
into loss,
and I said in response
to their incredulity:

yes,
I would have given the finger.
I think it would have felt the same.