Cigar smoke and yellow ginkgo leaves, apple tart crumbs and the coos of eager pigeons that startle at the least sign, simultaneous soar to the safety of the trees or the foolish apartment building with no spikes to deter their sitting. I toss them pieces of pastry, and they come so close as to touch. … More pigeons

bee haiku

Who can know the bee? We will be known by his god— only the—her—breeze. … © 2019 Anna-Christina Betekhtin, All Rights Reserved.


Walking by the Hudson can condensation cold, hot sun sweat and an excuse to be alone figs fertile split of ruined ripe bursting the rough bitter of grey amethyst velvet green plastic cage of fruit in hand and salt-stain wood, old orange rosehips thorned, soft smog. Clover can not be anything but content. Queen Anne’s … More hudson

on waking

in the muted pastel stillness of your bedroom, let the light bend around the corner. look to vibrating shadows on still white curtains, the embroidered cloth you have carefully pinned to unevenly-painted walls. the dry air of windows too-long shut in the summer heat, artificial stagnant breeze of the air conditioner. keep the covers on, … More on waking

in the afternoon

The leaves move quietly in the gentle wind, remembering where the coolness came from: far away, across the sea. Great churning depths, the boil of black water and the grave; an empty voice in the sweating void. Summer days of pelting rain, melting plastic; the slow release of poison from what we made with our … More in the afternoon


and after the poison, the hips narrowed to bone. there was less of me then, hair shed, bruises on the inside of elbows. I did not know what to believe: was I somehow better now, that there was not excess of me, that the spread of death was quenched? acid throat, the shattered rending. where … More chemo


And in spite of all terror, spit in their face, crush shards of broken glass beneath your feet. I was never brave, but learned it long ago. Some things are so, slow dawn, grey light that does not fade but grows to bright. You do not need it all. But learn to eat glass. Let … More spite


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 … More heartache


Wet tea leaves spilled on gritty hardwood floors, dirt tracked in by dogs and last autumn’s skeleton leaves. White plaster window frame darkens, smog and grease. The ants crawl neatly by. … © 2018 Anna-Christina Betekhtin, All Rights Reserved.