My father had watched the news and a fear grew inside of him, of brain-eating amoebae in lakes, so he never let me swim in them.
seek to find / in this universe / of white noise / / a winter crystal / of silence.
I’ve been baptized in the blood / of the lamb, and again, in the blood / of lambs. I keep both eyes open, / / pray while keeping track of my own.
When I pour out my grief over the leukemia / that has seized his body, she says think elephants.
slick with moss and missteps, sways side / to side from the first plop, scarce light / at surface, cove darkened with desire / and suffering samsara.
Steenblik’s poems give this reader the impression of someone who’s read and thought deeply about the role of the feminine divine, how Heavenly Mother can be sought and invited more fully into Mormon discourse in general and into the spirituality of individuals in particular.
And when she gets it back: / will this be the body she wants? / The one smooth as mythology, before / it was flagged, pockmarked
I never said my body / was a cathedral.
There are times when faith does not seem real. For me, it’s most of the time. But there are times when grace emerges like the sun chasing off the dark and cold.