The scalpels rattle in the wooden box

as you gently set it beside the slab.

The body lies with forelegs drooping,

hooves resting just above its chest.
The first incision starts at the base of the

breastbone. You slowly cut towards the tail,

not letting the blade bite too deep,

careful not to spill the blood that remains.
As you drag the blade you feel the weight

of the bag of potato-flour  in your  pocket,

pressing against your leg, waiting to be

scattered over the newly-exposed flesh,
waiting to soak up the moisture that

indicates that life was once present here,

that this shape was once more than just

a cold and motionless  lump of meat.
Once, these tendons shortened and pulled

at these muscles, which themselves contracted

and caused these bones to dance in complex

harmony and push this now -still form  over
spitting turf and past the screaming crowd at

record speed under a crisp November sky. Once.

The winnings still linger in the bank accounts

of the prudent, but the dance is over for good.
This is where you come in. Your job is to

remind observers of the life that now has

left this form,  to capture the essence that is

now departed, relying only on cold metal,
a sculptor's eye and the sturdy backs of the

three men who watch you closely as you begin

to peel the hide from blue-grey muscle,

unwrapping that which God himself has wrapped.