A letter from Alan Hill, New Westminster's poet laureate: ~The Pangolin~
I did not know that you existed.
You discrete anteater creature, with your wintry scales
features of an alien god or failed comedian with a tongue
that can pass through mountains
has passed across dynasties of Chinese history
slipped under borders, into bodies, through time
whose body is crushed, used to clear the blood
blocked Fallopian tubes, to bring milk.
I do know you now,
now I feel you uncurling in my cough
your claws within my haemorrhaging lungs, the
scrabble of you, within the work-less silence of the world,
in which I am masked, isolated, suspended.
I know your revenge,
how you must have it
for how you have been hunted,
a revenge, you will not know that you have taken
or are capable of
having wished for you,
for whom, I suspect, simply being, is enough. .
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