The Line That Doesn't Ring

I called to tell her something small.

The dial tone came instead—

not a ring, but the call

of the machine, the dead

flatline, that one note,

the way rejection is devote

to saying no.

I held the phone to my ear.

The cord at my desk

was wrapped around the base.

Patient. Waiting. It's clear

I should have known, blessed

with nothing but the taste

of reaching and nowhere near.

There's a particular shame

in listening to a machine

reject you, when the blame

isn't personal, just routine,

just the tone that all things claim

when they're closed, and the scene

is just me holding the frame.

I pressed the phone harder,

like pressure could change

the frequency, like I could charter

a different range,

like listening would guard her

away, and the strange

part is: I already know better.

The tone kept going.

One note.

Forever.

All the words I was holding

sat in my throat

with nowhere to go.