In the hickory scent Among slabs of pork Glistening with salt, I played Indian In a headdress of redbird feathers & brass buttons Off my mother's winter coat. Smoke wove A thread of fire through meat, into December & January. The dead weight Of the place hung around me, Strung up with sweetgrass. The hog had been sectioned, A map scored into skin; Opened like love, From snout to tail, The goodness No longer true to each bone. I was a wizard In that hazy world, & knew I could cut Slivers of meat till my heart Grew more human & flawed.