My Mother’s Cell

Spreading her gold on

the unheated guest room bed,

hoping to find her diamond

stud, she says again why

she can’t wear her high-end

hearing aids that crackle, catch

in her heat-damaged strands,

bangles, retells the tennis

bracelet story—one July years after

the insurance paid, she saw it

sparkling in daisies, a miracle,

but anyways she better go,

she’s lost the feeling in her hand
& hates this stupid phone.
Hilary Sideris
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