heartache

I wait for telephones to ring, books lie unopened in my lap. After all is said, and done, and wept, I doubt he will come back. My hands hold knives too tightly, cut the bread too slow. Apples rot and willows bend until they bend no more. Dark gum adheres to pavement, gutter muck and … More heartache

crawl

Wet tea leaves spilled on gritty hardwood floors, dirt tracked in by dogs and last autumn’s skeleton leaves. White plaster window frame darkens, smog and grease. The ants crawl neatly by. … © 2018 Anna-Christina Betekhtin, All Rights Reserved.

fear again

When you hear the voice it does not stop and nor can you, frail droning weakens in the wind, quick turn behind you. Pace endlessly, then end. There is nothing left to do. Look up in horror as the airplanes fly too close. Is this, again, again, how it all stops? … © 2018 Anna-Christina … More fear again

frail fresh

The cruel crystal smirk of a sigh, the whispered promise: I do not want you more than lies. Whatever frail fresh truth is, it is not you. … © 2018 Anna-Christina Betekhtin, All Rights Reserved.

baby bird

Fallen from the nest before the flight feathers, fragile feet rigor mortis, crushed and curled. The fetid urine of a dog in heat, hot plastic, leather, tawdry chafe. The seam of the sidewalk holds the body, soft wet wings unfurled. … © 2018 Anna-Christina Betekhtin, All Rights Reserved.

coward

I am not a brave one, not a lion nor a lamb; legs too weak to stand, crawl close. You are not of man. Let your mother wean you, let her lick your forehead clean. I am a child of the glen, there is no fear too keen. Your gentle growl, a humming, let the … More coward

blood & oak

If my heart has hardened, there is no one else to blame. I have never been a woman unaccustomed to the shame and bitter rebuke of who loved me, every bitter word a hound that tore flesh from my bone and did not pause to heed the sound of other hunters heeling, watch and wait; … More blood & oak

mine love

My heart has hardened in the years since; if I am diamond now what was is mist, coal dust scuttled in the mine too deep, wet walls and heat condensed, the fog of sleep beneath the stones of weeping; where do men toil? In the earth, to find the things they think of worth. … … More mine love

to carry cloth

Please give me cloth to carry, let me hold your velvet too. I would not be unburdened of linen, cotton, tulle. Whole handfuls chintz and terry, bright streams of satin, silk; I am not a seamstress, so free me of this guilt. … © 2018 Anna-Christina Betekhtin, All Rights Reserved.