Tryst Poetry by Kristy Bowen
In this dream, I do not know you.
A woman in a white dress steps
from beneath a tree. She is
and is not you, a trick of light
and desperation. In another,
you stack plates in the cupboard,
your arms reaching beyond my plane
of sight, doubt turning like a screw
inside you. Later, there are
storms, lightning cracks the air,
blackens it. The line of your back
rises in some interior room, a stranger
whispers your name, a prayer.
The house shakes in the wind.
At dawn, we'll travel the tangle
of grass to the car, our hems
dampening, unravelling. In the dream,
you'll whisper soon, the word
slipping carelessly as a curse
from your lips. Years from now,
our memories will mingle,
yours become mine, the long road
to town, this silence still as a cup.
I'll claim the drip
of endless faucets, longing
like an impossible summer.
Even still I dream you have
forgotten us. Pots of milk burn,
boil over on the stove. We grow
thin from neglect, bones rubbing
beneath our skin, cutting
through our days like a worn knife.