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.
This just evokes so much of former addiction and wanting out and getting out or not and so much of
Powerful!