The Bones Of It - Susan Jones

Turbot bones lay regimented
on restaurant white china:
no-one could strip a carcass
either Brill or Bass
with my father’s skill.
Now, I remember him -
his elegant knife,
his precise fork,
his polite passion.

With a restricted menu
I eat more fish meals;
but their remains
lay splintered and dishevelled.
Though I try to please
with careful cutlery,
it seems, all those
abandoned upturned boats
never make the beach in one piece.

Susan Jones