You stood up in the fishing boat,
a silhouette against the sunset,
shirtless and damp,
your blond curls wet and tangled.
I couldn’t see anything of your face,
just the flash of your smile
and the twinkle in your eye
as you held up the trot line and grinned,
talking some bullshit …
it was always some bullshit, wasn’t it …
it sounded so good in your patois.
I handed you the bait and tracked a trickle of sweat
down your belly into your well-worn jeans
while you pretended not to notice,
but looked down my shirt in trade.
Warm water lapped at aluminum.
Somewhere a fish jumped and plopped.
Cicadas tuned up
and you started singing
some Cajun thing I couldn’t understand …
didn’t really need to …
we both knew it was your version of foreplay,
softening me for the quick cold hose shower we’d give each other
before fleeing the mosquitoes
into the camp to strip
forgetting the fish bucket on the deck,
because dinner could wait
but we couldn’t.