The Curly-Hair Girl

You don't see
the girl's face
in the photograph.
Only the beautiful,
curly brown hair
and her bruised hand,
holding the picture
we'd brought from America.

She was sick;
all the children
are very sick
on that hospital ward
in Baghdad.

We smiled,
gave her paper and crayons,
and moved on.

In spite of the sad dreariness
that surrounded me.
I remember feeling buoyed by my mission--
shielded and protected
by a joyful sense of purpose
as we went from bed to bed
around the ward.

But then, the sound--
dissonant, and disturbing--
began to penetrate my
protective shield,
waking me as if
from a dream.

I turned to see a doctor
connecting an IV
to the hand of the curly-hair girl.
and she was whimpering.

No hearty cry
or tearful protest--
none of that.

No. She was whimpering
in a voice I can still hear,
but can barely describe.
A quiet, mournful pleading.
Or, maybe...
a high-pitched, listless moaning.

"She's dying," the doctor said.

The sound
of the child's misery
broke through
my sand-bagged reality.
Crayons, paper and good intentions
could not protect me
from this.

Trapped by my despair,
and unable to move
I stood,
completely transfixed
by the indescribable sound
of suffering that came
from the bed where
the curly-hair girl lay
dying.