Americana Stories—Poetry

rockaway beach, by Meera Rothman

the morning we finally go to rockaway beach
we will swim with the ghosts of our fathers

you first
diving headlong into the blue
fearless, like dad
like you were birthed here too
your shoulders plowing through the waves
freckled and sunkissed, dad’s grin
on your teeth, the same green eyes.

you will say it’s your lifeguard confidence
forgetting that our grandfather was a swim teacher
for fifty years
teaching the children of holocaust survivors
how not to drown
he threw us as babies into the deep end
and scooped us up with webbed hands
like my hands
like dad’s hands
upturned as he floated on his back
raised to the sky in shameless prayer

the men in our family
oh, they are too honest for their own good
creatures of habit, principled as stone
they obeyed their mothers, protected their wives, fed their daughters
even the ones who turned out like us
boyish and not daughters at all

your laugh short and hollering
my shaved head, rough teeth
seeking darkness as i leave the shore
swimming out too deep
there are fathers i never met inside of me
and there is something that makes tired men stand in front of
trains
or douse themselves in propane
but the tides pull me back this time

or is it you?
my sibling, my brother
shrieking with me in this water
dolphining up for air 

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