By Kathleen Bryson
I miss you so much, it hurts.
Last night I dreamed of pork shoulder
cooked so long in wine and orange juice, the rendered fat did caramelize. I
cooked for ten whole days.
Last night I dreamed of
running alongside a canal with gentle sharks and
the wheat chaffs were blowing towards me, away. I miss you so much, my
fingertips are glassy with hurt; perhaps I burnt them yesterday and did not
notice. I have been bleeding from scratches on my feet and arms and only
finding out afterwards. This is a record to the light that I miss you so much.
I miss you so much, I have to buy carbonated water so my throat feels alive.
I have forgotten who it
is I miss. Is it you or is it her? I miss her
sweetness, the time-shined amity in the years with her, her great-aunt's wooden
spoon worn down to a knub after stirring schnitzel since her girlhood of 1916. I
miss her so much. Last night I dreamed her cunt was in my mouth. The dream was
thoughtful, amnesiac where it needed to be, about how it crumbled.
It never happened.
It will never happen.
I miss you so much. I think
of you defiant, pliant, your face golden
with narcissism and desire and humor and stubble, your curls corkscrewing my
blood-pumping heart, milked out despite itself to fill glass bottles full of
serum and crush, yet even this last night March and morning is fading from
I saw the white flags go
up and the ships come in. I dreamed she and I
rode a bus with a jumble-sale within. She came prepared with a pale bin-liner
and I struggled to begin. We rendezvoused at the bus-stop. I stood her up for
30 min. She was ready to walk when I showed up. Her face was cold; I thought,
she hasn't changed since the breakup; she hasn't changed. Not since the
breakup. She hasn't changed. A few hours ago, I dreamed this.
The last hour I dreamed
I saw you in a street parade. I didn't talk to you;
the time was not yet right. I didn't dream of her before I woke right up; I
dreamed of you.
I miss you so much, the
spit in my mouth has the taste of hard citrus
Alaskan-born Kathleen Bryson
received her PhD in Evolutionary Anthropology from University College London.
She studies prejudice/empathy in humans and other great apes and is currently a
postdoctoral researcher at Oxford University. She is also a published author of
over 100 fiction pieces, including 3 novels of literary fiction. The most
recent novel is The Stagtress, published by Fugue State Press
(2019). An artist-writer-filmmaker for many years, she has had 10 solo art
exhibitions, amongst them “Once Upon a Spacetime” at the Royal Institution in
2019. She has just completed her second directed feature film, Baked
Alaska, for which she wrote the screenplay and performs.
KJ Hannah Greenberg captures the world in words and images.
Her most recent poetry collection is Rudiments (Seashell
Books, 2020), her most recent essay collection is Simple Gratitudes (Propertius
Press, 2020), her most recent short story collection is Demurral:
Linens, and Towel and Fears (Bards& Sages Publishing, 2020), and
her most recent photography collection is 20/20, Eye on Israel (Camel