Goat entrails, mango bats, hot peppers
And large grubs, fed to me

Food of the Gods, I didn’t have to be told
I consumed them knowingly, sopped up
The sauces and left nothing for the flies
Swarming about the compound

That was another part of Africa, but later
In the North, among Muslim Prayer
And women who look through eyes that have witnessed
The Far-off, their genitals having been carefully sliced
Off with a freshly broken coke bottle

In a tent, in the desert, I am told to eat
A small, thick slice, triangular in shape
Cooked in camels milk, fired by camel dung, prepared
Slowly, covered by a burlap sac

“…eat,” I am urged
It is strangely delicious

I know better than to ask, and without
Doing so, I am told the source of the oddly
Textured, dense, yet tender meat

“It is for you, because you are here. For you,”
They say. I look into the eyes of a young boy
He is too young to be silent

Raising his hand, without hesitation
“It is this, the most center part, the palm of man,”