Her talk floats, changes course
like blown soap bubbles. Then—

gone. Someone else’s
laughter comes near, draws hers.

She drifts
toward whoever is taking

her pulse, lifting her spoon,
doesn’t hear me

calling
into the receiver.

I stand in my kitchen, phone to ear,
listening

to the room she’s in

Jennifer Freed writes mostly poems. Her mother survived a cerebral hemorrhage two years ago. Learn more at jfreed.weebly.com.