Talking Her Out of It

She’s still got a cut on her hand

And they’re talking her out of it

Crouched over their own laps

They’re rubbing her shoulder

This makes her gag

But she turns it into a cough

She knows they want to help

But they’re aiding and abetting

Mom is distracted by who knows what

Dad is feigning rage, but he’s so tired his hands shake

She knows what he did

But they’re talking her out of it

Her left eye is bruised

And her toe might be broken

It’s sixty-five in March

But she can’t get warm

I’m cold, she says

And they tell her she’s not

She declares things

And they counter

They give her answers to questions

She didn’t want to ask

The dog sits with her

And doesn’t do a thing

How sad that it understands

Something they can’t

She picks at her nails

And legalese jumps around

The word ‘but’ grows five fingers

And gets ready to punch

‘We can do something

But—‘

‘We can go to the police

But—‘

‘We know this isn’t fair

But—‘

She thinks she should see a doctor

But they’re talking her out of it

‘Stuff like this,’ her dad says,

‘It goes on and on’

‘It never ends,’ her mother says

Speaking from the high point of no experience

‘It’s all in how you think of it,’ her dad says

Telling her how to feel, what to want, how to heal

‘It would be better if we all just moved on,’ her mom says

Probably wishing something was burning on the stove

That there was another problem to tend to

One that could be fixed by turning things down

Her ear still feels wet

From where his mouth was

Her right arm itches

Did it itch before?

What about her now is the cause of him

What exists that otherwise wouldn’t?

Was that birthmark there before?

Did her front tooth always have a little chip in it?

She thinks she’s somehow different

But they’re talking her out of it

She hates this couch, she realizes

This is the couch where you’re talked out of things

Like being mad at your third grade teacher

Because she called you fat in front of the class

Like blaming your cousin for pulling your shirt off at Thanksgiving

Because he’s a little boy, and that’s what little boys do

Like skipping the pool party of the boy

Who told everyone you went down on him

‘You’re too sensitive,’ your dad says

‘You gotta learn to let stuff go’

‘It’s always something with you,’ your mom says,

‘We’re always dealing with something’

They get up from their spots

Across from the couch and that’s meant to be it

If it’s brought up again, she’ll get the look the dog gets

When it drags in dead mice from the yard

She wants to be the type of person

Who calls out for help, or who can help themselves

She wants to be a warrior

A troublemaker, somebody you don’t fuck with

She wants to write his name

On every house in town

She wants a father who will comfort her

And a mother who will avenge her

She wants to be strong and angry

And loud and resilient and hurt

She wants to say what he did

So it can never be unsaid

She wants to do something

Other than sit on a couch on a Monday night

Dealt with like she’s the problem

And not him or what he did

She wants, she wants, she wants

But they’re talking her out of it