Working The Crisis Hotline
written by: Dianne Moritz
Down by the river
in cramped quarters,
telephones ring non-stop.
Young people, women
mostly, quickly pick up.
Voices cry out: Help me!
I’m too high; Someone
followed me; And…
Then he raped me.
This new recruit,
sensitive as bruised skin
calmly tries on comfort:
Stay cool. Talk to me.
Breathe, just breathe, I say.
All night long, I care,
console, my heart
racing, as perspiration
blurs worn referral cards.
During a brief silence,
I glance out a dark window,
see the boiling water,
imagine my body
floating downstream.
At shift’s end I exit, running…running.
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