Resilience

My cell phone
has felt cold murky water
clasp hands over its head,
pushing it away from the air,
seeping between its buttons toward its green plastic motherboard.

It has tangoed with the ground, the flattest, hardest partner,
bouncing, skidding, sliding,
each hit rattling it through its casing to its wires.

It has pushed through on the last electron
clinging to its battery,
running on sparks, on pure momentum.

But like an old warrior,
like a creature that rises from ruins and cannot be crushed,
like a woman who leaves her cheating husband in the divorce room,
head held high, bright red stilettos, not a care in the world,
my phone still lights up and vibrates
when I get a text.
Scratched up, chipped,
but not a crack in sight.