By Abigail Marchant
Waist-high, warm and wet,
poured half an hour ago,
like so much unchlorinated bathwater.
Slaps the tiles with a thick-voiced snap—
as pools are apt to do when threatened—
as they step down.
A man in white and glasses, a boy in white
whose glasses are several feet away
in his mother’s purse. The other kids watch dazedly
through the glass. His curly blond hair
comes up dark and flat.
I don’t remember when I took my dive. Drowning
and coming up reborn, a
wet phoenix. But I
remember drowning after that. Years
drowning in isolation. Gripping prayer
like a lifeline, scripture like sandbar-just-too-deep. I
took my vows and my chances
faced my fire more like a sparrow than a phoenix,
and came up wet and tight-tethered,
came up crying—wet and bright and new.
Abigail Marchant is a BYU sophomore working to get her degree in English. She’s been writing since middle school and especially loves to write poetry. After college, she hopes to start a family and publish novels. In the meantime, she’ll be writing more poetry and sharing it!
