Hey, Shannon
by Anya Johnson
I took a screenshot of you with the foil and the lighter,
cross-legged in bed with the fire yellowing your chin.
I was five deep, making martinis with the brine
from a jar of pickled beans. I couldn’t stop hiccuping.
Your face, so changed, the forehead tattoo
I argued against, tilted towards the screen.
Easy to dismiss as passing, these in-between years.
A layby on a hard road.
Since the call, I’ve been waiting for news. One of us dead
after all these years. The foil black from burning.
The bottle, empty. A wicker chair mounted on the wall,
philodendron curling to the floor. Hey Shannon,
hold on. Yeah, I’m still here.