My left hand lies here on the table,
A bullet split the middle finger.
I had rushed to Tullaís side. A friend
had warned me that she was suicidal,
addicted to morphine.
She was waving a pistol,
And this is my reward for trying
to save her life.
Everywhere my hand draws stares.
I foxhole it in my coat pocket,
but its ugly bulge
follows me, as loyal
as a scar
or a womanís treachery.
Now the only companion I trust
is this bottle of green liquor.
Here in the cafe I slip my botched hand
beneath the table.
But everyone knows itís there.
Everywhere I go people stare
as if it had strangled someone.
Itís like an assassin pursued
by a witnessí scream.