In the Gospel According to Cecil B. DeMille
waterfalls turned upside down
at the edge of Moses' beard:
the sea pulled apart
cleared a brief highway
then collapsed, lapping
at the heels of a nursing mother running
before the drowning corporals
of the pyramids.
Holding its breath
a more modest miracle
swims within the legend's tide:
The waters never rose
like wallpaper at the old man's elbows.
No mud was freed of the Red Sea's sullen weight
as the bloodied feet of bricklayers
raced before the Pharaoh's cops.
Water
to be a wall against their hopes
a cemetery for bruised dreams
a proof of fear and Pharaoh
gave way
gave way before nothing so polite as prayer:
like a swan's death song
a command to God.
And it was there.
The scholar of survival saw a path:
flashes of color in the reeds
a resurrection of the rainbow threads of Joseph's ancient coat.
Through the marsh
skirting quicksand bellies
in shallows
between skeletons
life's toe holds
solid, solid enough:
refugees traveling light.
The learned, ragged pilgrim
knew the reeds by name
old hide-outs from police
the moss that served as bed
the smell of the place the camel drowned.
The armed men lost the path:
the reeds all strangers
the earth too soft
the armor too heavy.
The soldiers
sinking in their metal
swallowed in their borders.
Death place
birth place:
in the Red Sea
the tears of God.
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