there’s blood
between the cracks in stone
someone has left it there
tiny, congealing spheres
like planets
whole
and undisturbed
perhaps the blade was too new
or the hand gone rogue in a too-small kitchen
or, perhaps, in some frantic war
the red settled into piles
of chalky rubble
in between the stones
in obvious relief
bright and tired and exposed to the sun
Siena Rose 