but then again it is only ever the backs of their heads   

boys bending over to tie their shoelaces or pray     

boys disappearing 

down escalators    

never the blueness of their gazes   or their mouths

maybe I fancy boys less than I do the steadiness   of their barbers’ hands   

when I shaved my head I did it without a mirror & my hands shook    

    so I started going to boys’ barbers instead

the first asked where the darkness in my hair is from & insists we are brothers    

      gives me the same haircut as him

& I don’t fancy this man 

but in the wetness of the mirror I fancy myself more than ever        

my new barber laughs & laughs at the idea of me being mistaken for an italian 

as he presses the clippers to my neck he asks me what I want         & gives it to me once a month     

last time we saw each other he used a pair of scissors to neaten the the sides of my head    

& while he sliced the black    he said aloud that I must have been beautiful 

when my hair was long      so thick it could trap sunlight & metabolise it into darkness      

sometimes before I leave the house my ma stops me in the kitchen 

only for a minute dots kajal behind one of my ears against nazar

& tucks the blemish like a secret only a lover could find in a poem

when I get haircuts from my barber I am covered with small black lines for the rest of the day    

like miniature ants swarming a fruit

sometimes he leaves a smudge of it behind my ears & I swear 

boys look straight through me