Hide

Hide

What does the cowhide hide.
The fact that it used to hold

a body, breathing, sleeping,
finding pleasure in sunlight.

Where does that knowledge
go, when we buy the rug,

bring it home, sliding it over
the wood, a brindled amoeba.

We can hide from the idea
that somewhere, there is a cow

missing its skin, wandering
ghostily through the fields

where it once muddled orchard
grass and clover in its mouth,

sweet, gluey. The cow was
rewound, unspooled. We need

to undo it far enough to forget
there was an animal born in it.