The elder’s keen for lying with their father.
Fourteen, she tells her sister not to fret,
but count their blessings: breath, escaping Sodom.
The future of the tribe is resting on them.
She builds a fire to heat the river water.
She pours the old man wine and makes the bed,
upon which she desires to be forgotten,
unlike her mom, the pillar of regret.
If you have any comments on this poem, Deb Diemont would be