The Truth Is

In my left pocket a Chickasaw hand

rests on the bone of the pelvis.

In my right pocket

a white hand. Don’t worry. It’s mine

and not some thief’s.

It belongs to a woman who sleeps in a twin bed

even though she falls in love too easily,

and walks along with hands

in her own empty pockets

even though she has put them in others

for love not money.

About the hands, I’d like to say

I am a tree, grafted branches

bearing two kinds of fruit,

apricots maybe and pit cherries.

It’s not that way. The truth is

we are crowded together

and knock against each other at night.

We want amnesty.

Linda, girl, I keep telling you

this is nonsense

about who loved who

and who killed who.

Here I am, taped together

like some old Civilian Conservation Corps

passed by from the Great Depression

and my pockets are empty.

It’s just as well since they are masks

for the soul, and since coins and keys

both have the sharp teeth of property.

Girl, I say,

it is dangerous to be a woman of two countries.

You’ve got your hands in the dark

of two empty pockets. Even though

you walk and whistle like you aren’t afraid

you know which pocket the enemy lives in

and you remember how to fight

so you better keep right on walking.

And you remember who killed who.

For this you want amnesty,

and there’s that knocking on the door

in the middle of the night.

Relax, there are other things to think about.

Shoes for instance.

Now those are the true masks of the soul.

The left shoe

and the right one with its white foot.