17 December 2006 | Vol. 6, No. 4

Ice Bone

by LAUREN GOODWIN SLAUGHTER

For Edward, in memory

Say the black road

is a bleached crest raveling

the one distance

meant for you (all of us).

Turn the stars

that night into light

animals. Aspirin moon

in its place glowing

over an ice bone

sea, the lives of your yellow

blanket thrown over

(hush). Make it August

(our summer) in Maine. Warm

stolen beer, adult beer

—Heineken—your mouth

on the bottle, my shoulder

my nipple (making out

to a manual—your boy-smell

is Camels, Ivory soap). We sailed

over clearness

in your small, white boat.

Take the tank top

I wore—its cool

Indian design—the pattern

paste it to this map

of—(your hand)—nodded off

at the wheel—I hear

the obit names you "seaman"

you'd become a (cigar box

—sea shells and snap

shots—the whale postcard

signed LOVE YOU) captain

summed up, wrapped around everything

now (a cement truck).