by Jon Boisvert

If we could make our own choices here, we'd make Lake Michigan our God, who formed when the frozen imponderable nothing went grinding over the void at one inch every thousand years, then melted to fill the hole it had dug. Then froze again. Then melted. We'd celebrate the birth of God by getting drunk on New Year's and jumping into him. We'd honor God by dredging him for mammoth bones and missing teenagers from Milwaukee. We'd pray to God on the coldest day of the year, a day so cold the snowflakes disappear into the white blur fifty feet above his head and the shoreline between the world and God is impossible to find. Dear God, we'd whisper through our parkas, we're all fat, God, we're all still fat and dying, just like last year. Amen.