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Dinner I watch you cleave meat from bone, hip socket gone, its ball glistens pink with the distant warmth of its former housing. You whittle the meat flayed, flat on your raised board. I ask, doesn't it need some fat? You smile, answer, see this silvery part?   It's not fat - it's connective tissue.  You don't want to eat that.   Your fresh breadcrumbs - the toasted heel of yesterday, the silty remains of a boule coat that musky curl of flesh. You roll the lamb around a whole leek. I help you tie the bundle, drips of olive oil, watery blood run to our collective wrists, stain the buther's string as we over-under a laddered stitch between us.   - Amy Sargent