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.
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