weeping wounds & tears

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. Advertisements

swallow blood

*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

the nothing

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.


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


this is the speech I gave at the St. Olaf Gospel Choir’s Fall Concert today, as well as at a beautiful little church in Minneapolis a few weeks ago. thankful for the oppertunity to speak on racial justice and grieving, and for the incredible family I’m proud to sing with.  … I left the first … More flood/fire/flight

broken febuary

  I remember that broken February when I read Augustine for the first time, and I knew that I would never believe in his pear tree, his mother or his faith. His agonies of ecstasy, his fear and trembling joy, his surrender to whatever it was that called him. How impossible his healing. … I … More broken febuary