By Julia McMullen
The Red Sea didn’t part at first.
No, it opened up and took us with it, waves
like arms outstretched, soft colors flooding
our senses. I thought it was strange,
the way my body lifted up.
I heard the shouts from below
and thought it was a dream,
but those were real.
The dreams were of sea monsters,
tentacles pulling my skin,
teeth crowded with urchins,
hair heavy with water,
sinking to the depths
where crocodiles ate my flesh
and blood mixed with water,
eyes red from salty crimson waves.
This was what they meant
by plague: these dreams, these nightmares
every time I close my eyes
and when I woke to be surrounded
by the sea, my body seized in mourning,
tears indistinguishable from the swell,
I cried to God to let me drown;
He moved Moses’ staff.
Julia McMullen is a poet living in the Midwest USA with her husband and young son. When she isn't writing or mothering, she enjoys singing at her local church and tending to her garden.