the tenderness of small things; apricots lush velvet in the palm of your hand, filigree spider web. how quietly an ant breathes. slow journey of caterpillar to leaf, dawn to dusk. I found a down feather today, perhaps a bird will bloom from it. … © 2019 Anna-Christina Betekhtin, All Rights Reserved.
I cannot say that I am sane, though they will say I flamed in/sanity. To plan and pick a day to die, no guarantee of death. To find a wide expanse of green, soak your clothes in gasoline. To write a manifesto or no? A match or lighter? Walk along wide avenues, shuffle, look down, … More the lament of the man who burned alive
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.
When you hear the voice it does not stop and nor can you, frail droning weakens in the wind, quick turn behind you. Pace endlessly, then end. There is nothing left to do. Look up in horror as the airplanes fly too close. Is this, again, again, how it all stops? … © 2018 Anna-Christina … More fear again
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.
Fallen from the nest before the flight feathers, fragile feet rigor mortis, crushed and curled. The fetid urine of a dog in heat, hot plastic, leather, tawdry chafe. The seam of the sidewalk holds the body, soft wet wings unfurled. … © 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
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
anna-christina betekhtin 