she wipes the blood from her face
(the sword)
rinses the apron in the cold cold water
(in the blue sink)
lays down the apron
the morning dew demands an answer
in order to dry
walks out
*
whether she murdered, was murdered
doesn’t matter
*
the autumn air is tender on the foothills
clear as water in a truthpond
the morning dew rests
against her blue cheek