There you go again, digging around
in the fly-covered entrails, looking
for the undigested piece of gristle
your mother forgot to cut off your steak
when you were 6.  All the while
the untanned hide sits rotting in the sun.

There are a few bare patches.
Scars from a recent rut?
Two holes where the arrows entered
the flank and lodged in the lungs.

Its takes forever to work
the skin soft with the brains.
Fingers raw, arms tired,
and Christ…the smell!
But it might keep you warm
in the lodge this winter.