Through paper thin walls we heard the mother
say, no stop, stop don`t do this
but he did the eighteen-year-old son
raped his mother and we sat there trying not
to listening to this inequity.
In time it became a norm and their bed creaked,
we played the radio a bit louder, spoke with raised
voices, anything to drown the sin.
I was glad the day they moved away,
they were now a couple holding hands,
and there was nothing we could do,
in the end, they had to pay, or perhaps
not, as they were knee deep
in an obscenity incest, they call love.