The hide once fit
some old cow
or steer far better
than it fits my hands now,
but I’m grateful
for thick, bovine skin
as my father and I
set a line of fence-
posts down the horse pasture’s
edge. From each hole,
I scoop out a winter’s worth
of sodden earth; dank mud soaks
my gloves. When we finish,
the posts feel solid, ready
for fenceboards. In a careless
moment, I toss my dirty
gloves in a plastic bag-without
a cow’s heart, without
its breath–three weeks later–
stiff leather fuzzy with mold,
still damp.
