the Book of Voices - Tyehimba Jess

retired, ronald reagan sits in his dayroom and wonders

where she comes from, this little salvadoran girl, the one with the missing hands and the hole in her head that perches her frame on the bedspread. why is she always there pointing a bloody stump at his face? he was horrified, "it's that kid again. who told her she could come on my set? who gave her a day pass? this is my production, dammit!"

but she was the first of many visitors, laughing open a mouthful of blood, of birds that turned into stealth fighters whipping around the ranch, committed to bombing runs just above his head.

the kid always bought back new things. one day, a coca field stretched under her sandaled feet and invaded his living room, another time she wore the word contra carved into her tiny bird winged chest, and then there was that time she called for mama, and a huge dollar bill appeared with ronald's face where washington's should be. on wednesdays, that north guy would float through the bedroom ceiling on a parachute made of crackpipes. north would spread his arms wide, his chest filled with eyes staring through bars where his medals used to be, and sink down through the floor.

LBJ appeared on tuesday afternoons after lunch, would share a stogie with him and reminisce. In an effort to cheer him up, he would say things like. "hell. you got it easy, man. how'd you like to see platoon after platoon of em' file by, bungee stick torn and bullet holed, all of them with their bloody hands, screaming 'why? why? why?' with each salute?"

one day, ron is being wheeled onto the porch for some after dinner fresh air when he caught sight of nixon sitting on the railing.

"i don't know what's wrong with you reagan. lookit me for chrissakes. we both got blood on our hands, but one bungled up robbery, and i get labeled the biggest crook in the country. you get away with murder (no pun intended) and everybody still loves you when you field a few softball questions on court tv. cheer the hell up. you got out with your balls intact."

serenity was ava gardner in a silver gown, slowly stroking his temples.

"what's the matter baby?"

"it's those damn ghost actors, ava. they act like it's grand central station or something. when do i get my own goddam dressing room?"

but that kid. that kid was gonna have to go. last time she tried to speak, a million children's voices rained on him like god's spit, whispering "desaparecidos, desaparecidos" and with that she sprouted wings of giant crinkled greenbacks and hovered over him with death in her eyes.

every night, ronald dreamed that he would wake from a dream of missile silos circling the globe, the globe morphing into his disembodied skull, his skull a swarming pit of nations that curse his soul, trigger his defense systems that bring all the warheads crashing toward his disintegrating brain, that wakes him up in the middle of the night screaming his lines with more conviction than ever before, "mommy, mommy, where's the rest of me?"

and there, right above his head would hover a kite attached to his shallow breath, a cloud of salvadon/guatemalan/watts/cabrini/johannesburg children, a flock of swollen bellies and bullet smothered skins, an ocean of small hands reaching down, waiting for ronnie to come out, to play.

- Tyehimba Jess