Give me something golden, something I can hold; if I was King Midas, I would not be so bold as to burn each touch with molten metal, curse my daughter, purge the earth of water, wine, good grapes that burst. Say I, with ore clutched close: I will tend the forge, close braid and curl … More gold & grapes
If this should come to naught and the nothing is a choice, all that mourns in grey grimed streets wrecked with wasted winds will voice the sorrow that careens full fleet through avenues too bright; mid-flight the pigeons swerve and bank, avoid the light. … © 2018 Anna-Christina Betekhtin, All Rights Reserved.
I look to my hands, and remember when they were small. When they first changed, the palms thickening and spreading, the tight spring of fingertips curling over, newly bony knuckles revealing tendons too tight and fragile. Slice peppers, peel oranges, untangle the small chains my father could not, tie double, triple knots, rinse thin champagne … More hands