By Abigail Leigh
though soul-sodden with heavied
I felt myself a man who could
walk across these waters,
so steadied would—make it
to the other side.
Like lightning, doubt struck
instead of faith, which away from me drifted
ledge, stumbling broke
in to swallow (body) to
by salt of circumstance turned
to a watery grave.
flood of mouth storms
with rage against the name who named
the storms, yet still
knows its namer
therefore: Your Name over a thrush of flood and flurry
my voice calls out
then thundering across the deep
calling my name: “Come”
not seeing, but seen
towards your steadfastness I step
Abigail Leigh is a harpist and poet from Oregon. As a self-proclaimed paradox, both a creative and analytical being, she draws inspiration from life's dichotomies: the belief that light and darkness, growth and decay, and joy and sorrow travel in tandem. Every season has a story to tell, and she writes because she is committed to unveiling truth from learned experiences. Her poetry has been published in Darling Magazine, Black Fox Literary Magazine, Equinox Biannual Journal and Clayjar Review.
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