[from Stephanie Anderson's In the Particular Particular, New Michigan Press, 2007]
My omnivore, we will eat all but
squeal. I brought you home head-first
in sack, sight-weak one. You barged
scrap-fed with acorn and milk.
Grew long in your board slab
pen. I was glad you could not
see the gun as I sharpened the sticking
knives, skinning knives. In February —
crushing rosin under brick and iron.
We boil water over tires; tub-cradle you
and rub with chains. Hand scrape your nooks,
gaff the hoofs, work in the lime.
At last, you hang burnished and clean.
When I go to fill signal lanterns, I will pocket
you paper-wrapped and larded.