Moses never swam

By Marcus Holley

yet you know the ocean better than yourself. 

You predict the tides, instinctually 

knowing how to swim against rip currents,  

never straying too far from your precious post  

of a bathroom towel & flip-flop. 

Absorbing the shock of choppy waves 

when a thunderstorm is impending— 

that’s when you stay. 

Going against better judgement of the rain,  

for the possibility of being washed away  

like the breadcrumbs of your sins, already overflowing 

at nine years old— 

that you would throw into a body bigger than your own 

on the day of atonement. Yom Kippur— 

praying for cleanliness in complete consumption. 

Do you still feel bad for the fish 

who have unknowingly choked on  

carbohydrates soaked with your internal carnage? 

A piece of you dissolving in the salty stomach acid of a guppy— 

too small to digest the suffering that it’s been fed. 

Gills restricted with the expansion of leavened bread 

that your ancestors walked forty years to make rise 

with scorching desert sand-embedded soles-  

only for you to return, falling into the soft grain of the beach. 

You can’t part the sea with the cloud’s tearful torment  

& generationally blistering, God-willing pain…  

so you hope he & the fish alike can forgive​

your attempt at swimming towards your soul’s salvation— 

drowning in redemption you failed to find. 

About the Author...

Marcus Holley is a senior poet in Douglas Anderson School of the Arts’ creative writing department. He is the Senior Art Director for Élan Literary Magazine with a goal of expanding the combination of visual art and literature into the community. His adoration for writing and spoken word  has manifested in hosting, organizing literary events, and bringing poetry to the stage.