Jolie Blonde

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.

RCGA, 2011