They console each other. She’ll regret this someday.
Repeat comforting words: Sick. Unbalanced.
Delusional. Turn pictures of her to face the wall. Later, yank
them out of the family photo album.
They get creative with history. Try out different stories.
She was always the crazy one. They write emails,
search out her workplace, send letters about libel.
Your mother will never forgive you.
Father cancels the wifi, but
the unblinking eye of the internet
hovers over their beds at night, casts blue light over their dreaming.
They don’t understand they are not the audience.
That the unwritten poem burns like stomach acid on back teeth.
That a girl’s mouth is hammer. Is bird and beacon.
Is muscle made to spit things out.