Formalities

Surprised by a visit from the tea-black priest
with white-white teeth, who yarred about God,
with seedlings of sweat on his forehead
while our bags were rifled through for 'contraband'
and we three squatted at the roadside.

Surprised by him, and his companion
who speaks little English.
We don't remember telling them
the name of our hotel.

Lunch? Chigger yellem. We sit down to eat -
the one meal split four ways. I'm staring
at his teeth (how is it they're so white,
white as lightly cooked chicken meat,)
when the amenities begin - his hand
unexpectedly at my lips,
pressing a small purse of food
against my tongue.

His whorls right in my mouth,
his teeth like a row of Somme graves.

And then you're all doing it,
this feeding each other like babies
in highchairs, with fingers for plastic spoons.
And I'm at it too,
to muzzle my horror, like a virgin
swallowed up in an orgy, thumbing
his way to the door.

Smiles all round though,
mouths too full to argue theology,
and soon we'll disgust them
by shaking with our left hands.