Grilled Fish

We had lunch
in a local trattoria
built into coastal rock,
picked a table on the deck
a few feet above water
that looked like the last
good novel I dove into.

A waiter came overleaning on two metal canes.
He walked like stone
and his English was a coastline
of jagged rock. His smile
brought the sun closer,
suggested local specials,
and we said grazie
to things the sea didn’t
need that day.

Another waiter brought
a pitcher of wine
with a round gold peach,
a tiny moon you can peel,
resting on the bottom.
We drank it with a salad
and tomatoes so sweet
and red the church should
make Satan blue.

Our main dish was grilled
fish who hadn’t lost
their heads to the chef’s knife,
or over the wrong women
the way I did a while back.
We didn’t recognize them
either. They might have been
French, swam down here
for the day, then were tricked
by hook or net.
They tasted as rich
as the sun resting
on waves filled
with every gold coin
from every ship that sank
since Caesar and kept
rolling towards shore.

Prize-winning poet Kevin Pilkington has taught at SLC since 1991. His books include Reading Stone, On This Quiet Hill, Getting By and Spare Change.