"Yeshua?" the girl with bandaged hands
calls out. I think her name is Mary.
She doesn't say "Jesus" like the other patients,
or like the preacher who
comes and prays with her every Sunday.
She rocks in her chair and mutters,
and chants to herself. No one speaks to her,
or if they do they ask her how she is.
She used to be a prostitute, they say,
until she was saved.
But I look at these white walls and think,
She's not savedshe's caged.
I step into her room and gently shut the door.
Her face is to the window. She glances back at me,
her eyes wide, and says, "Yeshua?"
"No. No Yeshua here today," I tell her, smiling.
Then I kneel before her and remove her bandages,
exposing the gaping holes in her hands.