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Flying over Cuckoo's Nest
They
're
out
there
.
Black
boys
in
white
suits
up
before
me
to
commit
sex
acts
in
the
hall
and
get
it
mopped
up
before
I
can
catch
them
.
They
're
mopping
when
I
come
out
the
dorm
,
all
three
of
them
sulky
and
hating
everything
,
the
time
of
day
,
the
place
they
're
at
here
,
the
people
they
got
to
work
around
.
When
they
hate
like
this
,
better
if
they
do
n't
see
me
.
I
creep
along
the
wall
quiet
as
dust
in
my
canvas
shoes
,
but
they
got
special
sensitive
equipment
detects
my
fear
and
they
all
look
up
,
all
three
at
once
,
eyes
glittering
out
of
the
black
faces
like
the
hard
glitter
of
radio
tubes
out
of
the
back
of
an
old
radio
.
"
Here
's
the
Chief
.
The
soo-pah
Chief
,
fellas
.
Ol'
Chief
Broom
.
Here
you
go
,
Chief
Broom
...
.
"
Stick
a
mop
in
my
hand
and
motion
to
the
spot
they
aim
for
me
to
clean
today
,
and
I
go
.
One
swats
the
backs
of
my
legs
with
a
broom
handle
to
hurry
me
past
.
"
Haw
,
you
look
at
'
im
shag
it
?
Big
enough
to
eat
apples
off
my
head
an
'
he
mine
me
like
a
baby
.
"
They
laugh
and
then
I
hear
them
mumbling
behind
me
,
heads
close
together
.
Hum
of
black
machinery
,
humming
hate
and
death
and
other
hospital
secrets
.
They
do
n't
bother
not
talking
out
loud
about
their
hate
secrets
when
I
'm
nearby
because
they
think
I
'm
deaf
and
dumb
.
Everybody
thinks
so
.
I
'm
cagey
enough
to
fool
them
that
much
.
If
my
being
half
Indian
ever
helped
me
in
any
way
in
this
dirty
life
,
it
helped
me
being
cagey
,
helped
me
all
these
years
.
I
'm
mopping
near
the
ward
door
when
a
key
hits
it
from
the
other
side
and
I
know
it
's
the
Big
Nurse
by
the
way
the
lockworks
cleave
to
the
key
,
soft
and
swift
and
familiar
she
been
around
locks
so
long
.
She
slides
through
the
door
with
a
gust
of
cold
and
locks
the
door
behind
her
and
I
see
her
fingers
trail
across
the
polished
steel
--
tip
of
each
finger
the
same
color
as
her
lips
.
Funny
orange
.
Like
the
tip
of
a
soldering
iron
.
Color
so
hot
or
so
cold
if
she
touches
you
with
it
you
ca
n't
tell
which
.
She
's
carrying
her
woven
wicker
bag
like
the
ones
the
Umpqua
tribe
sells
out
along
the
hot
August
highway
,
a
bag
shape
of
a
tool
box
with
a
hemp
handle
.
She
's
had
it
all
the
years
I
been
here
.
It
's
a
loose
weave
and
I
can
see
inside
it
;
there
's
no
compact
or
lipstick
or
woman
stuff
,
she
's
got
that
bag
full
of
thousand
parts
she
aims
to
use
in
her
duties
today
--
wheels
and
gears
,
cogs
polished
to
a
hard
glitter
,
tiny
pills
that
gleam
like
porcelain
,
needles
,
forceps
,
watchmakers
'
pliers
,
rolls
of
copper
wire
...
She
dips
a
nod
at
me
as
she
goes
past
.
I
let
the
mop
push
me
back
to
the
wall
and
smile
and
try
to
foul
her
equipment
'
up
as
much
as
possible
by
not
letting
her
see
my
eyes
--
they
ca
n't
tell
so
much
about
you
if
you
got
your
eyes
closed
.
