Rachel Hunt Steenblik is a PhD student in philosophy of religion and theology at Claremont Graduate University. She has a Masters in library science from Simmons College and a Bachelors in philosophy from Brigham Young University. At the latter, she was remarkably lucky (and remarkably grateful) to be paid US dollars to first archive Hugh Nibley’s papers and correspondence, and second to research Heavenly Mother. She has also been lucky enough to spend the last four summertimes studying things she cares about, as a 2015 Wheatley Faith Seeking Understanding Summer Seminar Fellow, a 2014 Maxwell Institute Summer Seminar on Mormon Culture Fellow, and a 2013 and 2012 St. Olaf College Hong Kierkegaard Library Summer Fellow. Rachel’s first book, Mormon Feminism (colon) Essential Writings, edited with Joanna Brooks and Hannah Wheelwright will be published this fall by Oxford University Press. She currently lives in New Haven, Connecticut with her architect husband and non-architect toddler.
“I DREAMED I WROTE FIVE POEMS”
I.
I searched for my Mother, the way a baby roots
for her mother’s breast, head nuzzling from side to side,
mouth open, ready to suckle. But I was still thirsty.
Then my belly grew, and my breasts grew, and
a ravenous little thing came out. I offer her my milk
without money and without price. My husband
offered it to her once, while I sat beside them on a train.
She pursed her lips against the false nipple,
and stared at me with sad eyes. I wondered then,
if Heavenly Mother walked into another room
so we would take the bottle. I wondered then,
if we are weaned.
II.
The Father could not hear
His daughter’s whimpering,
though He slept beside her
in the same room.
He could not hear her crying,
nor her screaming.
The Mother woke at every sound.
III.
Conch shells.
They are not the ocean;
they are memories of the ocean.
Birds. Trees. Olive oil. Bread. Moons.
They are not the Mother;
they are memories of the Mother.
I hear Her everywhere.
IV.
God’s Spirit, God’s Breath,
the one He could not live without,
gave me breath when I
gave my daughter life.
She sat beside me on the precipice,
so I would not be alone. We exhaled
and inhaled in unison. She whispered,
calling me by name.
V.
I asked my daughter two questions
the day that she was born.
1) Did she remember me-
my voice, my smell,
my beating heart?
2) Did she remember
the one we both call Mother-
Her voice, Her smell, Her heart?
I can’t remember anything.
“BREATHE”
I tiptoe quietly into my daughter’s room,
to see if she’s still breathing.
Her chest rises and falls, a hand moves. She sighs.
I tiptoe quietly into my Mother’s heaven,
to see if she’s still breathing.
Her chest rises and falls, a hand moves. I sigh,
relieved to know God isn’t dead.
God tiptoes quietly into my room,
to see if I’m still breathing.
My chest rises and falls, a hand moves. She smiles,
relieved to know I’m sleeping.
Podcast: Play in new window | Download
Subscribe: RSS