My old man’s castrating me
today. I know it. I can feel
it in my balls. The anxiety like
unsettling waves of darkness
making me cower and hide.
Peekaboo, he says with a
lopsided grin, and I want to
tell him I don’t see mother
that way, despite what the mad
theorist says. There’s no need for this,
I want to say, but I cry. Aww! Don’t
cry little baby, he says, and I can see
the malice in his eyes. He’s going to
take a pair of scissors and chop
my cock off.
I’m helpless and can’t
express that I’m not here
to take his woman.
What do I do?
Where am I to go?
The fear builds up,
swirling and swirling within
me like a vortex of ash.
Please! Make it stop!
My father cackles. He’s 94
and that adds a sinister quality to
his laughter. I run and crash into
walls because my 60-year-old self
can’t handle those chuckles of terror.
He’s muttering to himself now,
sitting on his armchair.
I know he’s going to get me
when I sleep.
What am I to do?
Where am I to go?
Please! Help me!
Ordinary Person 
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