When your ex-fiancé calls you should be busy.  
Let him feel the lush delight of interrupting 
something. Have soapy hands, something risky 

and pungent on the stove, your carton of eggs 
out and warming on the counter. Pick up the phone 
like something delicate, a rattle made of jagged 

rocks and glass. Hold it to the round of your ear.  
Remember him whispering. Those sounds
could crack the glass at any moment. Don’t fear

them. While he talks about his job, his wife, wander.
Explore your bookshelf. Touch the tiny books
he found for you in thrift stores.  

Let his Latin dictionary open in your hand 
and understand: lapsus means slip; lingue, tongue.  
Of course. Your hello, that slip, sticks food to pan.

As you rush back to the stove, listen again and hear— 
at last, over the smoke alarm—How are you?
Don’t think. Say you’re fine. Lick the receiver.