Thud and wetly thump

On a quiet Sunday afternoon
I sat down at my kitchen table
With a glass of water
And a sharp, sharp knife

I made some decisions
And I began to cut

I winced
Anticipating the pain
Slowly plunging the cold metal into my chest
Snagging the bones of my ribs
A jerking downward thrust

I exposed the four chambered thing
Looked down
Watched it thud and wetly thump
Red, garlanded with blue
The muscle striated
So much smaller than I thought it would be

I reached in with one hand
Took a sharp breath
Grasped and pulled
It came free with relative ease

I placed it on the table in front of me
It continued to beat
I continued to breathe
And again I took up my knife

I sliced with precision
Separating it into equal parts
And still it beat
And still I breathed

I washed the pieces carefully
Dried them with soft towels
Placed them in velvet lined boxes
Tied them with black bows
Wrote a name in silver atop each container

I proffered them with arms outstretched
The recipients surprised at the contents
And I asked simply
Please take care of this
I cannot be trusted
You will know when to return it
If at all