Off Beech Street, 1981

by Laura Lee Washburn

The Chesapeake Bay has the green color

lent by tankers

but the sand here, naturally dark,

makes visibility low. Underwater,

not as far as my hand.

This beach lacks the expected shells.

We find broken things,

the devil's pocketbook.

Fishing, we get blue crab on the line.

The female's sponge bursts from the shell.

He finds fishing better from shore

where the jellyfish are a show of vein

near moonfish with their artificial warning

more like antennae lights on those tankers

that pour bilge offshore.

We camp.

In dunes insects fly from the grass.

Two dragonflies could mask my palm.

Twice, our fire goes out.

Sand crabs slide between holes,

their eyes, an afterthought,

sink last into sand.

The tankers electric lights glare

on the water surface. The bay reeks.

Where the water breaks, decomposing fish,

a gull's wings twist,

the feathers float,

Icarus in a fist, covered in gnats.

Salt and sun bleach the beak.

I'm fifteen,

I make love for the first time