*discusses assault* … When I was young, I was nearly run over by a bicycle from behind. Asphalt-burnt knees and heavy breathing, the softest gust of air before it happened, the wind knocked out of me. How he kept on going, the retreating wheels in the distance. How my mother cursed him, the dogs shied … More footsteps & wheels & stairwells
For whatever reason the rose waits to bloom, I wait too. Past midsummer and the rains, autumn windfalls and winter gains, the lean sodden spring is when I trust the leaden slush and bedraggled birds to learn me a new season. What a risk to trust in this— the fetid musk of life in flux … More wait to bloom
Mourn not the weeping wounds and tears. Let blood congeal, slow ripples. Blistered water boil, raindrop pus. All scars were water once. Cry no pain, gasp no ache. This body will healing drown in praise. … © 2017 Anna-Christina Betekhtin, All Rights Reserved.
*this poem in featured in “the nothing”, the previous post, but it was written before and published here before. I changed a few punctuation marks; here’s the definitive version.* ~acb … Swallow blood to staunch the grief. What bruises bulge beneath, soft flesh split, which veins spill sadness: it does not matter. Only someone must … More swallow blood
If anyone asked me now what there was between us, I would swear it was nothing. The last time we fought was years ago, three in the morning, his eyes red from drink, mine from crying. The others are wickedly hilarious at the other end of the table, laughing off the alcohol. I trace the … More the nothing
The snow falls. A benediction I did not ask for, the soft sting of a gift gratis. Head bowed to the wind, the unrelenting that repents. Cars careen, twisting slush along paths unseen. You will find warmth along the way. … © 2017 Anna-Christina Betekhtin, All Rights Reserved.
The earth split open where I fell; loam and soil cannot tell of blood and bone that burst there between new snail’s shells and the moss that staunched the gravel in me. … © 2017 Anna-Christina Betekhtin, All Rights Reserved.
We had left around nine that night for an eleven o’clock game, far from where I knew the roads even in daylight. The familiar cries, boys I didn’t recognize who piled bags in the back of pickup trucks, sticks in the cabin. Waiting in the wind while it was decided who would be burdened with … More a hockey game, two years ago
Revenge is still a stone I swallowed without knowing how long it would stay. When will it gravel? … © 2016 Anna-Christina Betekhtin, All Rights Reserved.
The stairs were not there. Instead, opaque white plastic sheeting and orange cones consumed the crumbling concrete with the warning of new steps to navigate when the concrete dried and the caution of tape was soothed to safety. But now no cautious step could stop me when I set my instep on the railing, heaved … More bruise