Missionaries
by Anne E Thompson
The clean people
Visited.
Colour drained skin
And diluted eyes,
Peering wearily
Into our homes.
Pink lipped mouths
Mispronounced loudly,
Lank hair slid limply
Beneath extravagant hats,
A stool was brought,
But his wife sat,
Drooping on it,
Smiling at me.
So I hid,
Lest her cool hand.
Should reach for me.
