A spring is freed within a cave, a pearl
polished. Two mouths both open. Your morass,
thicket of curls, leaves cum-smears as you curl
over, spasm, then curl again. Cut class,
I said. Afternoon’s after-shocks teach us
all we need to learn. Your dad calls, urgent
that you return. “It’s my turn,” you say. “Mess
you up twice, boy. Make you dumb with brilliant
vice. Make you fall in love with sin, again.
Make you wanna please.” With heat like sauna
you guide me in. Fingers atop your pearl.
Fingers between us; an oak tree root in
your mussed-up morass. “Cunt’s floodgate gonna
bust,” you warn and your toes begin to curl.