Paumanok Today, Tara L. Masih

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Paumanok Today
Tara L. Masih

Sea Urchins
My shore
was the gentle curving of the sound
shaped by surrounding peninsulas and necks
of verdant green.
The bay's contours held fragile sails,
windswept as kites.
I could float amongst seaweed
with the water's rhythmic heartbeat,
the soft green and maroon algae mermaid's hair
expanding radially from my prepubescent form.
My brother and I spent hazy hours
throwing slippery handfuls,
the stuff clinging to our naked bodies
like target paint.
We popped natural air bladders
on flat brown gulfweed,
delighting in the little escape of air,
wondering about the Japanese who ate it
like a vegetable.
We caught silver-shot transparent guppies
in paper cups
and pulled snails from their rock foundations.
They came home with us in a yellow pail,
salt water spilling onto the car's carpet.
We kept the captured life in a jar,
fed the creatures Rice Krispies
until the fish floated belly up
and the snails disintegrated,
leaving empty shells.

Mother
she had a bit of magic in her,
my mother.
She led me along the tide's edge,
foraging through the sea's flotsam and jetsam
to find jingle shells,
which then littered the sand.

The salt-pale
orange and yellow cups
were named for the fairy-like jingle they made
when shook together in palms
enclosed like a maraca.
She pierced the shells with a sewing needle,
strung them on twine
and adorned me with musical necklaces and bracelets
fit for a sea princess.
I wonder how many mothers
let a child, still briny, slip between cotton sheets
because the child likes the smell and feel of salt
left behind
on her skin and hair.
My mother's magic extended to her body.
I watched her grow with my brother,
examined her as she bent
collecting driftwood, sea glass, Indian paint pots,
and marveled at what hung from her chest,
caught in the cups of her suit.

Bonfires
My girlfriends and I no longer wanted to be seen
with our families.
The lifeguards held our hearts
more than our bodily safety,
while we agonized over the direction puberty
was taking our chest and hips—
when I bent over, I received a shock of recognition.
Places had to be covered
and those who weren't allowed to shave
kept arms down.
Girls with gold jewelry and two-pieces
got more attention;
we learned not to look down when talking to boys.
Why hadn't we noticed sand flies before?
Or the smell of sweat?
Beach parties set the scene for flickering romances,
French kisses,
horizontal panting.
The warm dark and yellow firelight
made every boy, for that night,
glow with promise.

Ebb Tide
The tide gathers me to it in my depression.
Cars, pulled to the sound,
line the harbor dock or the blacktop edging the beach.
My neighbors look straight ahead
so as not to invade my privacy.
I hear that it is a desire to return
to the womb,
the simulation of amniotic fluids
that kept us suspended but untouched,
attached but not present.
I am torn between that dichotomous need
to be free
but connected;
the sound's froth rings of something
delicious and eternal.
I will bring children here some summer,
though the loss of jingle shells
is a painful reminder of the loss of
mermaids,
my shape,
my mother,
my husband,
my belief that life can be controlled,
contained in a jar.

~~~~~~~
Tara L. Masih grew up in the small harbor town of East Northport, on Long Island – “fish-shaped Paumanok,” as Walt Whitman called it, using the Native American name for the island. After graduating from C.W. Post College, Tara received an M.A. in Writing and Publishing from Emerson College and now works as a freelance book editor and writer in Andover, Massachusetts (www.taramasih.com). She has published fiction, poetry, and essays in numerous anthologies and literary magazines; was the assistant editor for Stories, a national literary magazine, for three years; has been a regular contributor to The Indian-American and Masala magazines; and her essays have been read on NPR. Her many honors include a Pushcart Prize nomination. The “Sea Urchin” section of “Paumanok Today” was previously published in Live Poets (Vol.1, Issue 2).