What a clever cleaver that pointing finger.   What a Judas that that sleeping head.   Saving skin, turning cheeks,   tip toeing and screening these unwanted phone calls.   I can hear her crotch-flavored mouth sighing   while in someone else's arms.   I can hear her friction-scarred thighs asking for amnesia.   We walked, our bare feet crushing neon signs up and down the avenue   and all I can think about is scratching my initials on her pale flesh.   Fermina.