She is a creature of secrecy. She thrives
among bedrooms and information, behind
great walls of growing hair and stolen scarves.
She keeps her eyes within herself,
keeps her branches tucked in,
all her edges gathered up beneath the sheets.
Knowing she will not be trusted, she continues to lie.
Strokes her elbow, hums an echo, tells a lie.

Her brothers have become existentialists
without knowing the meaning of the word.
They laze about existence with their lighted blunts.
They don't believe in meaning. They don't believe
in direction or effort or coming or going or moving
out of their parents' home. And most especially,
they don't believe in poetry. But they believe in
their younger sister. They like the way her brow sits,

her infectious comfort, poor posture, arcing form,
the way her tendons fall ethereal and loose from the edge
of their respective beds. The way she can lie
upon their pillows with all of her tiny weight
and gaze up privately from within a separate bedroom.
They like to follow the curve of her mouth as
she speaks of Kate Chopin and what it is to be a woman;
the ambiance of her droning philosophies stirs
the nighttime sounds of “Fear and Loathing
in Las Vegas.” They don't need to hear her, only follow
the curve of her lip and know she is a woman already.

She says her room is haunted. Asks, May I sleep
in your bed. Just this once. And for the next month.
They nod their heads simultaneously and wait for her
rambling to wane. Agree to take turns watching her
toss and turn, aching for some way to protect her
from the havoc wreaked by a mind too capable,
too sure, too constrained. They wonder if she knows
yet. If she knows that she is almost gone.

In the morning, she wakes to find two saints
slouched in their day clothes at the foot of the bed.
She knows she's the reason they don't believe in reasons.

She'll never hear their whispers above her restless resting.
They hold between themselves a sorrowful love.
They say, Our sister is an angel abandoned by God.