My first ham felt like…well, like felt. A ham purse maybe one from the hide of a sweater from Goodwill in pink with three circles I cut from the sleeves, ribbing and all. My vegan’s rebellion. One kill exchanged for another– the blood, sweat, and tears kind. A side pocket from two sweater slices, a third on the back, I pound white into pink, adding scraps of burnt sienna from a daddy vest, some brown sugar velvet ribbon goes round and round — a fourteen foot memory that hardly cleared the door, scraped the ceiling, piles of gold beads sewn in, jute braid marrow, loops and a brass chain, ham ready at my wrist.