When It Rings

The timer counts down on the counter,

clicking off the seconds like a heart,

a metronome for things we squander,

for endings, for the falling-apart.

I was making pasta—ordinary, dull—

when your name came up again,

the phone began to shake and pull

my attention to that grief, that pain.

I didn't move. I didn't answer.

The timer ticked. The phone went quiet.

The timer rang—its bright campaigner—

and I heard both in that riot

of sound: the bell that said time's up,

the absence that you'd let me go.

I turned the timer off, the cup

still full of pasta, and said no.