the bones

I have a bone
to pick
with you, she says.
but before
she begins.
you imagine
a plate of fish,
it's smooth
feather like
flesh
removed.
it's open mouth,
wordless
without
the sea.
it's button
eyes flattened
still
reflecting
you now.
and the bones, white
slender
sticks
that held
it all together.
what bones, you
say, finally.
what bone
is there to pick.