Joan and the Whale

In bible school, I mishear Jonahfor Joan. I picture it—her hairstill perfectly coiffedinside the belly of the beast,sighing, it really is quiet in here.

How she makes this houseof rib and half-eaten sea life, a homefor one. Hanging lanternsof translucent shell, oil drawnfrom within. Sewing herselfa dress, bodice of bone,jellyfish veil trailing behind herin ghostly wisps. Smoothing kelpinto soft rugs where she lies,a quietly humming hymn. She rests

her head on pillows made of grizzled moss.No ticking clocks, no demands for her labor,just the balm of the beast’s belly.

At night, Joan whispers into the tough meatof the whale’s stomach, soft enoughto be heard by flesh, but not by God—please do not send me back.

At the end of three days, Joan finds herselfashore, husband calling her home.The world returns,loud with its claims. She turnsher back on him, like Lot’s wifein reverse, salt licking at her ankles.Moving like the tidetoward a life of her own making.

When I ask my mother about this story,she lets me believe I got it right. She says,only a woman could be swallowed whole and still survive.