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 broken glass.
Wait under leaking awnings till the storm does pass.
Woven baskets crumble, umbrellas broken lie.
I would not trade this mangled heart
for rubies, cities, wine.
© 2018 Anna-Christina Betekhtin, All Rights Reserved.