An axe came through the ice.
And

as you tossed and flapped
in the bright air, your synapses
learning the cold and your veins
running with your heart again,

the hand reached back inside of you
and unpicked the hook that it had left through
and through all those years ago,
between the fold of your shoulder

blades, in the heft of your chest,
where, beneath your ribs, you vested
a treasure of your own.
Buried in the knotted deep to lie fallow

and rust. It took the shine
but left the steel; as if to remind you -
Your anchor still holds.
It is there, and calm below.