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.

silver song of toil

I was never brilliant, I was never bold; anything I ever touched has never turned to gold. Quiet toil daily, seed the soil old; silver is the next best thing for dull and shy, base souls. … © 2018 Anna-Christina Betekhtin, All Rights Reserved.

ars cliché

*not an ars poetica, but close* … If the clichés come, let them. Sometimes they are the only way to speak, the huddled mass that chimes low in the throat, sing hymns to a wrist, what do you worship now, love? And say, it is you. Descending dust, deep full thrum of feathers falling, who … More ars cliché

bug love

If not the bumblebee, the fly. If not the cricket, a close-kept thigh. If not the beetle, then the flea. If not the moth, an open knee. If not the gasp, a sigh. A table small and nothing shy. … © 2018 Anna-Christina Betekhtin, All Rights Reserved.

a wine song

Have care, be kind, do not spill wine on strangers you have not yet met. Thank the glass for every drop; for the crystal that is not true cracked, for the shard that is not sharp as yet. Steady hand, sure-footed as she goes; look into the eyes of strangers and ask how much you … More a wine song