Who can know the bee? We will be known by his god— only the—her—breeze. … © 2019 Anna-Christina Betekhtin, All Rights Reserved.
The cruel crystal smirk of a sigh, the whispered promise: I do not want you more than lies. Whatever frail fresh truth is, it is not you. … © 2018 Anna-Christina Betekhtin, All Rights Reserved.
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
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
The sore wet wounds, broke open, but the break beneath; soaked feathers splayed with raw, red meat and the wet stains the asphalt dark. Chest deep with muscle, useless now; the hounds strain to know the extent of the death. Wait for the light to change; to walk home, feed them, brush their fur; born … More roadkill in riverside park
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.
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.
*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
Broken open by the song of sparrows, winds that will not wait shred feathers, fish scales. Sweat the street, cherry blossoms and the gutter grime. Rumpled linen ripped and whipped pebbles, asphalt that burns the begging storm, when will this begin? Scattered shards of inane sound, salted blood and the guts that were cleaned out … More a seafood restaurant in summer
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.