Elizabeth Burk
INTERNSHIP—PITTSBURGH, 1981
I worked the suicide hotline
for a six-month stint. Time
stretched, a rubber band pulled
between wrists. Mine were not yet
cut or mutilated, my legs still
un-scarred by scrapes or burns. Up
and down my arms veins pulsed
inviting scissors, knives
and razors like the ones my clinic patient
handed me for safe-keeping—
a silent threat of intent. I left the blades
in my office drawer for whoever
needed them next. Undone by diapers,
dishes, laundry, garbage bags bursting
with empty bottles, roaches
scuttling under bare bulbs,
a dissertation I couldn’t write,
a husband drinking day
into night, I often thought about
dialing myself on that hotline
but didn’t have time to make the call
nor energy to answer the ringing phone
nor would I have known what to say
to the person I was running from
at the end of the line.