They tried to put their fingers in
Gagging reflex, salty skin
To tickle and persuade the back of his throat
Still flaking, red raw
From last time.

Those words had come out all wrong
Now they must go back
To be redigested, re-gurgled
Prettified, and spat
With vigour
Back into the waiting, ticking hands
To be judged, assessed and criticised

They must not be too harsh, not too subtle
Their intonation must be perfect,
Collaborative, kind.
Working like an oiled robot
With the muscles of the throat, the neck, the jaw.

Teeth: poised and ready
For this is perhaps your last time to impress
To leave tiny marks in vowels and sibilants
To escape the fingers and the vomit

And instead, smile in mock confidence
At your suitors’ hands eagerly awaiting
Their fresh meat.