By Sneha Rajan

Somewhere on the other side of the country, I
 taste ash
with fumbling fingers sliding palenumb across my screen.

My eyes skipbeat over my father’s name.
 I can’t delete the number because
 one day my car might break down
 and he’ll need to lilt faults at me while getting in his car to
get me.
Though his phone is crackeduseless, the car towed, mouth unpracticed again
But the number stays of course.
He’s not dead of course.

My friend isn’t dead either my phone speaks
 echoes of soot fingers and acrid lungs.
My breath forms fantasies while
 waiting for the next.

Biographical Statement: Owner of the stubbiest cat with the loudest scream on the East Coast.