Under the pew I wring my hands numb
while the air nets hundreds of floating fish,
their underbellies hangnails of light
slicing through the walls like boxcutter blades.
I use them to cut a line underneath each of my eyes,
slide mirrors under the flesh like grade-school portraits
into a wallet. I wait for the skies to part. I hum
with lips closed. A willow watches
from the window. Oversaturated with prayers
it remembers its namesake, lets itself sink
farther into the dirt. The puddles of my eyes ripen
into two giant green apples. Behind them
there’s a font where I meet my reflection:
unholy and gaping like a fish.

Alyssa Froehling