Joan and the Whale

In bible school, I mishear Jonah
for Joan. I picture it—her hair
still perfectly coiffed
inside the belly of the beast,
sighing, it really is quiet in here.

How she makes this house
of rib and half-eaten sea life, a home
for one. Hanging lanterns
of translucent shell, oil drawn
from within. Sewing herself
a dress, bodice of bone,
jellyfish veil trailing behind her
in ghostly wisps. Smoothing kelp
into 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 meat
of the whale’s stomach, soft enough
to be heard by flesh, but not by God—
please do not send me back.

At the end of three days, Joan finds herself
ashore, husband calling her home.
The world returns,
loud with its claims. She turns
her back on him, like Lot’s wife
in reverse, salt licking at her ankles.
Moving like the tide
toward 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.