The Chaplain

The chaplain sighs before his congregation of plastic 
chairs, a cartoon yellow Eucharist fixed above the pulpit, 
a construction paper halo fading behind his grey head. 
Soon the Lord’s guests will trail inside, goaded by nurses 
and exhausted aides. As the patients have been restless, 
it falls to him to deliver the sermon again—to reign in 
the unruly spirits, urge them to perform a kindness 
for their caretakers, take their meds and exercise patience: 
heavenly freedom from mental constraints is a generous 
reward. The chaplain no longer notices how the chairs 
are affixed to the floor, that the hymn-books are protected 
by supple covers. He feeds his audience Christ’s passion 
in muted tones, God’s flesh the antidote to their demons. 
One woman raises her hands skyward and an aide subdues 
her before she can cry out. Another wants to ask a question 
and is quietened. Thus rebuked, the patients stare through 
the chaplain as their minds wander away to join the rootless
white clouds. Outside the sealed windows, they rejoice in shifting 
shapes, transforming dandelion fluff to dolphins flipping 
through feathered sky while the chaplain’s voice winds around 
their legs like snakes.

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