It is morning in America, where I sit, wearing a cloak of mourning,

next to a packing case adorned with rusted grass; a coffin for a body, my body.

My hand holds My hand stained with finger prints of the beloved assassin’s hands.

Which airy scabbard now conceals her deception’s steel – the cause of this massacre? Is the amulet my body wears at the throat, her dagger’s handle?

In America, it is morning. In America, I am entombed in a bloodsheet.