Butchering

Fist balled she glides the skin away from flesh.
She sinks them elbow deep down between the skin and the hide.
You try she instructs
I ball my small brown fists, little marbles beneath skin.
My knuckles scrape against the red, it's warm inside the sheep.
My knuckles are pink as kitten noses.
Grandmother's palms are flat as she grips my face and presses her lips to my forehead.
She just wrapped the fat with the intestines. Achii.

Dr. Pepper can greasy tinned rolled in salt sits on the gingham table cloth.
Fizz burns down my throat.
Flies linger on clumps of fat.

I chase them with the fly swatter.
Grandma taught me how to kill them.
The neon blue mesh whistles through the air.
SMACK! It's dotted black.

Grandmother never slapped my face, but Momma sits there.
She's smiling, thirty six years old, but still stinging.

Outside the butchered skin hangs, hardening in the sun, wool matted with sand.