Clear memories of the hanging meat
the smokehouse
the hooks
the acrid smoke
That first slice of the bacon
strong, smoky flavour
cooked all the way through
As a child
sitting on the cow-yard fence
Dad stuck the pig –
I heard the blood run before it congealed
a last cry
a squeal
a carcass hanging
Stomach not yet split
blood running from the jaw
rear feet tied precisely
In the butcher shop, hearing the tear of meat
as sinew is forced from bone
the rich smell
the carcass reduced
the chops and pot sized lumps
Dad built the smokehouse, for smoking the bacon
concrete blocks, a simple structure
dense smoke rising from the chimney
smoldering sawdust billowing
stinging my eyes
Hanging meat is turned
earthen floor holding the heat
embers fed with new sawdust
the smoke will die down
the door pulled open slowly
the gentle blue haze blurring memory
Slicing, slicing, slicing,
the rhythm of the bacon slicer until
arm muscles screamed
I swapped to my non-preferred hand
it was never as efficient or fast
Packing bacon slices – 6 or 12 at a time
pressing the plastic bag against my chest
quick twist at the top and through the tape dispenser
Tubs of sausage meat, mixed by hand
the hairs on my Dad's arm caked with additive
I watched the oozing mess escape the sheep guts casing
on the long nose of the sausage machine
I worked in harmony with my brother
his foot controlling the air pressure precisely
pushing the meat against gravity
swirling snakes collecting in the white plastic tub
I packed the sausages – still wet
later the synthetic cases came
less breakage but they tasted like plastic
I peeled them off and left them on the side of my plate
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