Fishing in the moonlight below the dam,
the night air smelling of ozone,
a boy named Tom revealed
what I should have known;
that he, like I, had been diddling
the Cherokee girl that whole year.
“If so, you’d know her hot spot,” I said
with disbelief at first. “I do, her ears,”
he replied, and I knew it was true.
We looked at each other and grinned.
Those lobes, pulsing as she heated up,
were the apple that bitten, proved the sin.
We pulled in the seine; he turned
the boat around, it was his dad’s.
We had something else in common now,
and laughed that we were not mad.