St. Francis Disrobes
by Paige Lewis
When Saint Francis materialized
in the corner of my studio apartment,
I figured I was in for a quick
message from the Almighty— Thou
shalt lose weight, or Thou shalt not lie
with thine physics professor. I thought
it would take an hour—two hours
tops. On the first day, he didn't speak,
just held a steady rhythm of five sighs
per minute. On the second day, he
moved, began undoing his robe, and I
imagined red squirrels perched upon
high snag ribs, and swallows—those
mouthy little things—skimming
the fields of fabric around his ankles.
In him, I expected to find where
the river quirks, to learn how many
feet a millipede can live without. I
wanted to see my prayers tangled
in his chest hairs. Or maybe I
wanted no hair—for his body to be
bare as tonsured scalp, but now it's day
thirty and his hands are still unfolding
layers upon layers of brown wool.
Sometimes, I look past him to watch
infomercials where hollow-cheeked
women shove apples into self-
cleaning juicers. I invite men over,
and they spend the night asking
questions he won't answer, like why
leaves in shadow appear light blue,
why bees prefer beer cans to daisies,
or why their wives forgive them
when they come home smelling of me.
I often dream of him speaking, of his
final unravel revealing a silk dress—
A present from my father, he says,
and as he raises his thumb to touch
my forehead I ask, Which father?
in the corner of my studio apartment,
I figured I was in for a quick
message from the Almighty— Thou
shalt lose weight, or Thou shalt not lie
with thine physics professor. I thought
it would take an hour—two hours
tops. On the first day, he didn't speak,
just held a steady rhythm of five sighs
per minute. On the second day, he
moved, began undoing his robe, and I
imagined red squirrels perched upon
high snag ribs, and swallows—those
mouthy little things—skimming
the fields of fabric around his ankles.
In him, I expected to find where
the river quirks, to learn how many
feet a millipede can live without. I
wanted to see my prayers tangled
in his chest hairs. Or maybe I
wanted no hair—for his body to be
bare as tonsured scalp, but now it's day
thirty and his hands are still unfolding
layers upon layers of brown wool.
Sometimes, I look past him to watch
infomercials where hollow-cheeked
women shove apples into self-
cleaning juicers. I invite men over,
and they spend the night asking
questions he won't answer, like why
leaves in shadow appear light blue,
why bees prefer beer cans to daisies,
or why their wives forgive them
when they come home smelling of me.
I often dream of him speaking, of his
final unravel revealing a silk dress—
A present from my father, he says,
and as he raises his thumb to touch
my forehead I ask, Which father?
Paige Lewis is the author of the chapbook Reasons to Wake You (Tupelo Press, 2018). Their poems have appeared or are forthcoming in Poetry, American Poetry Review, Ploughshares, The Georgia Review, Best New Poets 2017, and elsewhere.