Iraqi Boy

What appear to be peach-white, over-washed pajamas in the washed-out newspaper photo on one side droop like a monk’s hood, the upper half of that leg raised with the other, whole one and the hands they’re there! and the less washed-out pink balloon above them that they reach for or have just let go —the latter probably as one hand, palm up, is wide of it, two-thirds of a laughing mouth visible, the wheelchair in this case, its sparkle stark against the flannel and plied living limbs within it, a tool of fun. Such wisdom’s possible here only, the ability to feel glad to be alive gone on the outside, the “cloistered incarceration” of the ward holding the boys as if they were a group of monks. Asked by a visitor what it’s like to live secluded most of the time, mute and with forced labor, a chronic lack of sleep for all the praying, the Benedictine monk asked back: “Have you ever been in love?”