The Boy With Perfect Black Hair

The Boy With Perfect Black Hair The boy with perfect black hair Like black cold coffee sitting in the bottom of the pot Like dark blue ice Like a cashmere sweater The girl whose nipples stuck out from her sweater Like bean spouts about to break ground Soft like lumps in pudding If he ever combed his rock hair The brush would scream of pain The tar that had hardened would crack She walked by slowly, having no idea their eyes were erect She saw the boy with the shining cranium And felt a cool blood flow to her breasts If she ever pulled her sweater off the red nipples would glow The breasts would give life to dead lovers He noticed her chest They were round, not too big and firm Their eyes never met Only the reflection of nipples in his mirror hair That’s the only place that she existed then And his head was her left breast At a moment when she brushed her body against a cement wall His head cracked open and milk poured out In their passion, they died Her nipples bleeding oil But the souls that had met in the reflection smiled In sexually reddened syrup The boy with perfect hair became the girl’s last sin.