Each finds
their own salvation
or not,
Nima said.
Birds fed
in her hair.
Her eyes sucked
in black holes,
gave birth to dreams.
I sat beside her,
drank black coffee,
smoked menthol cigarettes,
heard Coltrane
on the HiFi.
How deep
does my soul go?
She asked,
what is sex after all?
I inhaled and looked
at the cavern
of her small
firm breasts.
Cold turkey,
she said,
rather have
a cool fix.
I sat exhaling
menthol smoke;
the Coltrane runs
on saxophone
caught in my ears.
I think I’ve spiders
in my vagina,
she said;
big black ones
with hairy legs.
I closed my eyes
supping on
the menthol smoke,
sensing Coltrane's sound
invade my soul.
Nima lay back down,
legs spread,
black beetles
and insects
inside
her drained out
head.