angel ears.
a poem on the sometimes crushing existence as a 911 calltaker
there’s a certain kind of sadness in knowing that her voice exists on more emergency recordings than anyone she’s ever known has heard her speak. this is the slow burn as the world grinds, no gnaws... away at an innocent turned tired. this is a different, slow kind of death that happens to anyone who outlives themselves. she’s just another ghost that nobody really knows. how many strangers does she pass by every day who have heard her on the worst day of their life, who have no idea that day for her was just like any other? they pray to god, but she’s the one who hears.
work. sleep. wake. repeat. she whispers it into the static hum of the console, into the empty space between emergency calls, into the ringing that never stops. work. sleep. wake. repeat. the city exhales through her headset — gunshots, sobs, the stutter of someone’s last breath. she teaches strangers how to keep hearts beating, while hers forgets the rhythm. work. sleep. wake. repeat. the holidays pass like ambulances — sirens instead of songs. no family. no lights. just another ghost walking denver’s arteries, wrapped in fluorescent hum and burnt coffee. work. sleep. wake. repeat. her voice lives in recordings, more alive on the line than in any room she’s ever stood in. somewhere, a mother thanks her. somewhere, a child cries through her headset. and somewhere, she tries not to. work. sleep. wake. repeat. she has seen more death than most cemeteries remember. each goodbye leaves a film on her skin, each scream curls behind her ribs. work. sleep. wake. repeat. she doesn’t pray anymore. she doesn’t eat much either. she scrolls through silence, through faces she used to know, through the woman she used to be before she became transparent. work. sleep. wake. repeat. they call her a call taker. she calls herself a ghost who forgot to finish dying. and when her shift ends, she walks home through downtown lights, listening to echoes of all the people who’ve heard her voice but never once heard her.