Hudson River
Blue Crabs in the Hudson River by John Proctor
The first time I met a live blue crab was on the Hudson River, in the summer of 2005. I’d taken a group of immigrant students from the Borough of Manhattan Community College to the Hudson River Museum of Art in Yonkers. We were having lunch on the pier overlooking the river when we noticed a middle-aged couple in flip-flops lounging on lawnchairs, looking out at five or six different ropes that extended into the water. Every now and then, one of them would get up, pull each rope up individually, and check a wire-mesh box at the end of it. And every now and then, they would shake a crab out of one of the boxes into a white bucket.
A group of my students surrounded the couple and began taking pictures. Both the man and the woman took the whole thing in stride, standing and posing. After serving as cameraman for most of the shoot, I asked the couple if they were planning on eating the crabs in their bucket.
“Oh yeah,” the man said, poking the crabs in the bucket with a tong, “but those are just a snack. Can’t eat a full meal of ‘em up here.”
“Why not?” I asked, their outstretched cerulean claws tapping the inside of the bucket.
“DEC,” he said.
I didn’t ask for details.
When I decided to try my hand at crabbing, I was still unsure what specifically the man was sneering at. The thrill in the idea of crabbing to me was not just pulling the spider-like creatures from their watery homes, but eating them.
The New York State Department of Environmental Conservation (DEC) publishes a pamphlet on blue crabs in the Hudson. Strangely tucked between instructions on how to shell a crab and a recipe for crabcakes, I discovered the reason for the man’s ire:
The NYS Department of Health (DOH) recommends that women of child bearing age and children eat no crabs and that others eat no more than 6 crabs per week. › Continue reading
TORCH SONG: SHIPWORM by Danniel Schoonebeek and Allyson Paty
Was a time what I took from you
I took into myself. My mouth
full of wood. Full of your bulk.
Now when I move, I remove you.
Nothing happens in which I don’t.
•
Where do I stand now the jetty
has buckled? Have heart, take after
the water. How it breaks against
itself and won’t wear out. Even this
scrap of wood—Taste. Just salt.
About the Authors
Allyson Paty was raised in New York City, where she continues to live. Her poems have appeared in Tin House and the text journal A Similar But Different Quality. She can be reached at: allyson.paty@gmail.com.
Danniel Schoonebeek will be featured as the new voice in poetry in the Fall 2010 issue of Tin House. His essays and reviews have appeared in Publisher’s Weekly, Tin House, and American Poet. He lives in Brooklyn and can be reached at danniel.schoonebeek@gmail.com.
Torch Songs is a series of diptych poems on which Allyson Paty and Danniel Schoonebeek collaborate. There are many. For more information, please contact either poet.
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