Totems



A pangolin always hides her face.
One day longing to have scales that hang smoothly
she sought advice from Lacanian therapy.  

Perched like a judge on the bench,
surrounded by the writs of Freud, Hoffmann and Jung,
a head small and square,

he listened with preened mental alert
as her tongue scratched into the dirt
until family totems began to appear.

Animal spirits that creep into moods;
attacks from green sibling beaks.
Rabbits’ teeth that bury into flesh.  

A wolf who uses paranoia to hang on to its prey.  
In this trance; this dance of dismay
she jumped at a sharp ring like a wasp-sting.

Then in a dry tone she heard him say:
We only have one minute. Please finish.
How naked she felt before those eyes

that had revealed a body crawling with lice.
Shame had crept out from under her skirting
and lay frozen in the middle of the floor.  

Anger hovered like a frantic bird
as she hurried to the door
she tried time and time again to get outside

Herself.
But the taste of those lice is so bitter
It took a long time before I realized

that it was useless to spit them
into the face of another.
As I lay on the couch and cried

the dead scales scattered
I knew that I wasn’ a pangolin
Now I can say with pride.

I’m quite good looking.


Kate Hill-Charalambides


If you have any thoughts about this poem,  Kate Hill-Charalambides would be pleased to hear them