by Daniel Lassell
Daniel Lassell is the winner of a William J. Maier Writing Award and runner-up of the 2016 Bermuda Triangle Prize. His work has appeared recently or is forthcoming in Slipstream, Hotel Amerika, Atticus Review, Split Lip Magazine, Reunion: The Dallas Review, New Poetry from the Midwest, and The Poet’s Billow. He lives with his wife in Fort Collins, Colorado.
As my wife and I walk the beach on the northern side of Chicago, we watch the children as they make snow angels in the sand. Sand Angels. And they are the only ones, or so it seems, brave enough to submerge themselves in the cold waters of Lake Michigan. We see a woman sitting on the banks with three dogs on leashes trying to wrangle the knots free as her dogs wag them tighter. That one reminds me of Milo, my wife remarks of the pit bull. We continue to a pier with, at its end, a small metal lighthouse only double the height of myself, and I consider how I could be a lighthouse holding a flashlight above my head. If all’s required is this small lamp at its peak to keep the ships at bay in the night of the northern United States. If this rust moves into the waves like blood when it meets water.