Tathagata Banerjee
In the end, there was only blood.
And hidden memoirs that was sharp like a knife
In the end, it was words that told illusions apart from lived reality
And I’ve known long enough the identity of my assassin
And yet Freud told story of men and only men
I and Plath and Luke Skywalker knew it all
All, all along
And we hunted down scary last names
That looked like mirror and cut like one
In the end there was only blood.
And I’ve read every last detail of handed down curse
The sins that sons of fathers carry
His hungry naked power of a primordial dwarf
Play pretend shadow monster
Who’s afraid of Virginia Woolf…
I’ve known it way too long.
Way too much.
His Heinrich hand all over the map and history
Of fictional masculinity and made up binary
The devil is in the patriarchal details
And yet Freud wrote of men and only men
In the end there was only blood.
And when my assassin delivered the final blow
I hurled to him my greatest insult
My weapon… My curse
I called him, “Father!”