Salt

　　by Ander Monson

　　 It covers everything， a glossy January rind

　　 along tires. Sunny days have brought it out，

　　 burned away the ice， left

　　 the calcified tidelines to gloat

　　 on the hoods and sun-warm trunks

　　 of cars queued up along the curb，

　　 parking close as they can get

　　 to each other， to the raised

　　 sidewalk that's buried

　　 beneath the dirt crust next to the neon-lit

　　 sign for the funeral home.

　　 The body of the boy we knew is still

　　 inside， the cheeks teased

　　 back to cheery life with rouge.

　　 The ice on the canal

　　 the faulty floor through which he descended

　　 blazing on the back of his Arctic Cat

　　 is black as slate

　　 which means it's thin

　　 and boys on the shore

　　 throw aimless stones that yield

　　 ricochets with laser sounds.

　　 The outdoor rink is bare， festooned

　　 with bits of the Canadian flag

　　 fragments of the maple leaf