“For behold, ye shall be as a whale in the midst of the sea; for the mountain waves shall dash upon you. Nevertheless, I will bring you up again out of the depths of the sea; for the winds have gone forth out of my mouth, and also the rains and the floods have I sent forth.”—Ether 12:24
I dream in waves, I wake
in waves, I speak in waves. I cannot help
but murmur. Yesterday we were rising up
a watery mountain, today we are swallowed down
to its belly: a tomb at the bottom of everything.
But always, you
lift us up again.
I find solace in two things:
these rocks, like parents,
taken up the Mount, past the veil,
and touched by the King of Kings himself.
In this vessel, they hold me at night,
caress my back in thunder, and whisper
my name gently. They’re as bright
as two little suns.
And how at times, we remove the opening,
take back the pavilion and let the holy air
slip in like bird song in the morning.
Not just air, but sometimes dappled sun
and starlight pillar down, we watch
it like a firelight dancing at our feet.
It is our only art, only hope, a song of some
holy just outside.
For a moment the waves feel
familiar. As if mother holds her hand
to her belly, how she lulls us, how she rocks us,
as she walks home.Meg Mcmanama is a Ph.D candidate and Teaching Fellow at University of North Texas. Her work is published and forthcoming in poets.org, Western Humanities Review, The Pinch, Poetry Wales, and elsewhere.
Art by Rebecca Sorge Jensen.
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