Jesus at the Juvie Hall

Jesus pulls up a chair to tell me about his day. Today at breakfast,
when the doors were unlocked, he and the others came out of their
      rooms,
and to his surprise, there were muffins! Everyone here is crazy
about muffins. They mean nothing on the outside, but in here
(he looks at the floor and trails off). Jesus tugs at the little braids
in the nape of his neck. I go to court tomorrow. They say
I’ll be sentenced and moved on Friday. He drums
the metal table, balances his feet on their heels. With a sign, I heard
you can get Snickers over there, at least. Just then, he remembers
and pulls a glow-in-the-dark rosary out of his shirt. Jesus says
he is learning how to pray, albeit with help from the Virgin
prayer card from the priest. At night he draws the blanket
over his head and cups the rosary, as if brightness itself
offers protection. There is comfort, he says, in knowing
his grandmother blessed each bead, and when he slides them
through his petitioning hands, it’s as if he’s lacing his fingers
into hers. There, in the sanctioned darkness he whispers, Glory be.