your child was sexually assaulted at a party

almost—a friend intervened as sober hands

fumbled against an impaired zipper. your child is in love

with sharp edges—clothespins, safety razors, and

exacto-knives wait red-spotted under the bed, but

your maid has yet to notice. your child hasn’t eaten

solid foods in three weeks, has slit both wrists

in frenetic dreams, takes whatever colored pills

are closest to hand, drinks until feelings can’t be felt.

your child found your Tinder profile, your stash,

the photos, the manila envelope containing the truth.

your child overheard you that night, hears

what you really mean, even though you’re too afraid

to admit it. your child has told me these things because

you’re too busy posting shit about other parents on Facebook

and they don’t want to be a distraction.