​Three Steps - Linda Scheller

In recovery, someone said helping others
is the best way to help ourselves
resist the cravings, the bottles,
the stumbling flight from fear.
I think of our attentive circle
leaning toward the speaker, elders nodding,
strangers hovering in flimsy chairs.
After the meetings I’d lose myself in a movie,
and mornings I searched for myself with a pen.
I think of the times I barely cared if I lived
but made myself call someone who might feel worse,
and it did help, a little.
 
I think of you, a new volunteer with Harm Reduction,
your closet filled with boxes of wound care and tourniquets
in the hope that you could help someone else and yourself.
I think of you, turning toward the Narcan in your closet
three steps from where you fell, alone in your apartment.
Irony rusts under such circumstances.
 
We emptied your closet of jackets and t-shirts
and carried the Harm Reduction supplies to a car.
Maybe someone else can help the struggling people
you wanted to help, the people you hoped would help you.
Little bottles of powder, pain killers, alcohol, and fire--
the unanswered voice mails and messages heap
like autumn leaves inside your phone. I can’t help
but think of you, your face dyed red by death,
your icy arms hard beneath our hands.