Cody, 13   That he was named by the court, from a list the judge makes for wards. That his parents, biological— one of whom must have been present at his birth, must have known names— didn’t name him. That this was a rejection.   That he takes his body’s waste and wipes it on the walls. That his hands always smell like shit. That he hurts himself after, cranks back his large head and whips it into the shit-smeared padded walls. That the spray from the impact splays beautiful shit murals on the floor. That the nurses marvel at them.   “Fecal smring” the nurses wrote on the daily chart. “Slf-hrm,” they notated in nice script for the doctor. That these are shorthand phrases on a form. “pt was upset bcse.…”   That his drugs make him sleep 16 hours each day. That he gains ten pounds a week. That he doesn’t notice. Doesn’t notice much.   That when he goes outside he clumsily sneaks to the fence to escape. That the nurses drag him back to the playground. That he hides in the slide. That he roars and spits when other kids are near. “Slf-iso,” they write, and “escape atmpt.”   That in his room at night he’s quiet. He practices walking through the walls, one at a time, limps at them, eyes closed, each step bringing his body closer to the wall. That he is never closer to slipping through.       © Drew Riley Drew Riley is a graduate student at Fairleigh Dickinson University, and has had poems published in the Oak Bend Review. He writes and lives in Helena, MT.