On Hold

I can’t escape the ringing phones.

When they ask me my name, I say give. When they ask me how old I am, I say oceans. Mostly I listen — save my mouth for more specific forms of beauty. Down the line there is laughter soaked in static; I slap the receiver, finger the cords.

Nothing changes.

I ask them about sparrows, about spring. I ask them, have you ever waited like I’ve waited? They give me music so cold and clean I think of hospitals. I’m sorry, I say to the silver notes singing so exact, I think I have to go.


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