Let My People Go Poem by Jordan Crider

When the waters came we were sitting,
On your dry front porch,
Watching the remaining embers of the greedy fire-swept city,
Die away;
The columns of smoke turned white as the poisonous, salty, and chilling tide blanketed the coals of what use to be a bright and busy boardwalk,
Full of blissful people;
Our view from your industrial home,
Perched atop the over crowded mountain of overpriced material houses now dressed in gray,
Was perfect;
We could soak it in, the reality of what was coming,
Everything,
Even the crisp cutting cry of the ocean bending and breaking the iron supports of the baseball stadium was audible.

And there we sat,
You on your piano bench, gently, like a mother,
Softly caressing the ivory keys of the 1920 Parisian upright piano,
While my callused fingers bled emotion through the heartstrings of my frowning guitar;
And you sang!
Oh your sweet liberated vocal chords announced to the earth,
That we were all that was left.

And your voice guided the waters to us,
Giving birth, like a virgin, to our own Nile River;
And when it cradled the wail of an abandoned infant in a 4000 year old woven basket to our port,
You smiled,
And waded through the polluted muddy water,
Past the sailing washing machines and anchored minivans,
To the middle of our dead and silent street,
Where the Egyptian package met you;
And as you spread your arms out to catch the floating treasure,
The wind blew through your wingspan,
Up to your pitch-black star bright hair,
And brushed it out of your green eyes,
Revealing the smile you were hiding;
The smile I had never seen before,
A smile that assured me,
Everything was gone,
But not to worry, we wouldn’t be left behind,
Soon, we’d be gone.

So you opened the dull brown basket,
Your pale skinny fingers only used the strength necessary,
No more,
No less,
And out shot a hand, stolen of its staff,
A small wrinkly hand, amidst the blowing ash and calm water.

It took hold of your finger,
Like a child does a balloon,
A red one;
And your smile grew faint,
While you tucked this infant,
This lost cause,
This baby moses;
You wrapped him in swaddling clothes,
And the ocean mist perfumed him with frankincense and myrrh,
Then you let your draped hair cover your tired face as your back bent to kiss our baby moses on the forehead;
Such a brave kiss!
Quick and painless, without hesitation,
Then you made sure he was snug and warm,
And replaced and secured the intricate woven dome of the wicker basket back on;
Then you pushed him away from his red balloon,
Into the rising waters,
Just like Yocheved must’ve done.

And you turned,
Without a cowardly second glance back at the biblical baby;
And you waded; waste deep, back to our musical messengers and me,
And there we sat,
Sending musical messages from that dim porch,
Even as the waters came,
To the level of your accepting keys;
Even as the waters came,
To the level of our necks and washed against the ash that caked our empty faces and aged us through the years until our hair,
Was as thin and white as Abraham’s;
Even as we took deep deep breathes,
In the cold jealous water,
It came.

And there we sat,
On your front porch, letting go to all we ever thought we knew;
Providing the elevator music to whichever direction we were headed,
Up or Down.