Hannah told people—with her crouch

under the neighbor’s bed, her broken

watchface that morning late for class,

Sally Dick and Jane already repeating,

see spot run. O, how she wanted to run,

to be anywhere but in that chair

in a room of kids in rows reciting gibberish.

Children, they tell, not always with words

but with their faces, their bodies—

hungry for a friend’s peanut butter, front teeth missing

in middle school, a young boy holding tight to a cop:

help me, hide me, protect me from my parents.

Hannah’s mothers knew their children

were telling. It was only a matter of time

before someone heard. They home-schooled,

refused to open the door, fled state to state.

Before she hit the gas, before she drove Hannah—

drove all her children—over a cliff,

Jennifer Hart bought each one a banana—

they were so hungry. Later, at the scenic overlook,

a passerby noticed twisted metal below,

banana peels flung on the rocks.