No Longer a Home Phone

She does not take it everywhere

as the saying goes

she is

it

everywhere

she is the wet and bright ding in her purse, pulling her head as we stand at the island,

even when her chin jerks uncertainly, her own countermovement, telling me a part of her still wants to stay

she is the need to text back, the scrunched eyebrows

as if they were blinds closing in a café

she is the slouched shoulders and propped arms

as she scrolls, scrolls, scrolls

through posts as eye-catching as age-old Papyrus

and in the end

she is the disappearance, the disappearance

as if it weren't an 8.6-mm-thick solid block but an

information sinkhole a

gaping mouth

of air

A child it's like, to her

which would

give me

one

more

sibling