Imagine how sad you would feel
if you found out
your father was Hitler and he had
bequeathed you his will.
Not the kind of will written on paper
nor the kind fondled by lawyers, but the will
that is power
stored in one’s heart—like a whisper.
No, I would not blame you for feeling sad, or lost,
or even ashamed.
Imagine if you had no choice
but to listen to this whisper
grow slowly like a rose, or a tumour,
invading your fibre
as ink does a stain. As though it were
a seedling conceived in
Who can blame you for wanting
that kind of history?
What kind of monster would cherish
the suffering of six million faces
pressed against a death mask
carved as a grin?
I would not blame you if you chose to take your life.
Is it not yours to keep and give away as you wish?
Surely your father wouldn’t have wanted you
to have that choice
to make—so why should you give him
Is not your imagination yours and yours alone—
to wield and fashion into any weapon you like?
If the memories that still haunt your path
cannot imagine you without their hands and mouths
sucking on yours,
then whose imagination was it you really inherited?
Imagine how terrible it would be
if it were yours
and yours alone.