“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.