Life Expectancy
My father is a death row chaplain.
During his visits the prisoners' legs
are chained to a large bolt in the floor.
Their hands are bound to their belts.
Mostly they want to talk.
My husband saw a bat
dive headlong into his hardwood floor,
still wet with polyurethane.
It struggled to rip away and reclaim its wings.
It was a kindness to chop off its head.
Most death row inmates prefer a life
sentence of God's words, even stories
of the Last Supper and Judgment Day.
A few prisoners would choose a silent ax,
preferring not to be bound with words
to time, like nerves to muscle.
Still others would believe
my father's words about eternal life.
He searches the inmates' eyes
for those of his own trespassers.
He reminds himself again
that Jesus died for the Nazis, too,
who made him a slave at age 16.
He is bathed in the light
of the caged fluorescent bulbs.
