I have one of the last rotary phones in the country,

mounted on the wall in the kitchen,

bright yellow and unstained from grease.

When the phone rings, I let it

the rattling, shrill cry does not bother me

I keep kneading the dough in my hands

slow and methodical,

I’ve set a pace and a rhythm.

When it stops is when I look at it,

so bright against the peeling wallpaper

where I’m sure things live in the nighttime.

I never answer the phone,

I let it ring and ring and ring until it stops.

I never wonder who is calling.

I wonder about the mechanics of it,

this bizarre little creature

perched on the fraying pink wallpaper

of an inherited kitchen

that will never feel like mine.

I wonder for the first time

what will happen if I pick it up

put the receiver to my ear

“Hello,” I’ll say and I’ll wait for the reply patiently

and when there is none I will just pretend there was.

I will tell the voiceless caller about my day

I will ask about theirs but they will not answer

so I will just hum and agree every few seconds like they are.

I will wander around the kitchen

the curly cord stretching impossibly through the tiny room

as I turn around over and over and over again

the cord will wrap and wrap and wrap itself around me,

around my hips,

around my throat.

While I speak endlessly

to the silence on the other end,

I will not notice the cord

around my legs

and my neck

and my hips.

I will feel like teenaged girls in the movies from the 80s

on the phone with their girlfriends,

gossiping about what happened in calc class today,

what Jenny said to Billy,

who frenched who.

When I stop talking to take a breath

I will be at the window

looking out at the world

so many floors below me

I will hardly be able to breathe

and I won’t know

if it is because I am afraid of heights

or if it is because of the telephone cord

wrapped around my throat so many times.