A payphone—

those ancient, now extinct relics found

on almost every calle street corner; some

had booths but usually they hung

on walls outside of supermarkets,

drugstores and malls; before cells

and smart Apple phones, we would

take our loose change and call our friends,

lovers and familia members. And sometimes

 

with no quarters—

I would try calling mi Mami; I recall

her number would ring, and she would

answer saying A-lo! While trying

to speak into the receiver, 

my voice was blocked—

with no quarters you could dial

someone but they could never

hear you. When I want to talk to her

 

this is what it feels like—

1987 and I am redialing her phone

number. She picks up and says

mi nombre as I try to speak,

yelling, Mami, it’s me, su hijo,

but she can never hear me. This

is when I wake up with a sore

throat always hoping maybe

 

I can go back—

but then I realize

there is no payphone.

I sit up breathing panicky,

grasping the nightmare

like a fever, sweating,

I awaken to mi Mami still

muerta. There was no call,

I just keep replaying her voice:

hearing mi Mami, recalling—

I can never again answer

her ringing inside my head