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The Assailant
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1
What a clever cleaver that pointing finger.
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What a Judas that that sleeping head.
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Saving skin, turning cheeks,
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tip toeing and screening these unwanted phone calls.
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I can hear her crotch-flavored mouth sighing
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while in someone else's arms.
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I can hear her friction-scarred thighs asking for amnesia.
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We walked, our bare feet crushing neon signs up and down the avenue
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and all I can think about is scratching my initials on her pale flesh.
10
Fermina.
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