who introduced me
to Billy Collins' wit
cannot walk or talk,
lies paralyzed
with a terminal, progressive, disease
in a Utah nursing home,
can no longer
drink, and pick up men
and women
in Hollywood bars
which was her hobby
for years.
Those whom she took home
couldn't believe
their luck
and never knew
that she and her two sisters
had been molested
by their father
back in Salt Lake City
and that he had started her
on a long career
of self-medication and improvisation
punctuated
by these years
of dying
with a clear mind
that cannot speak up
and denounce
he who betrayed her
and a body
which can no longer walk
away
from past or present or future,
which cannot sit at a bar
and drink
and let her beauty
attract
some distraction from
he who set her on
this path.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem