She was this old man's idol
This beautiful young teenager
Who worked at journaling and Yoga and picking pumpkins
To earn her privileged ski trips
Who could be entrusted with my house
Object of fantasy.
So the shock was not her Mother's alone
When she shred Mom's face in rage
And revealed something very deep within
Far different than the beauties I had observed
This thing known as sin.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem