A new essay, "The Alphabet In The Shag Carpet," is up at Connotation Press:
Leaving our rented house to go to the beach for the day, I saw a dead bird on the driveway, its wings fresh and glistening. For a week I walked past the bird, early in the dewy mornings and late in the sun-burned afternoons, and each day the body turned out a little more, decaying, welcoming flies, then maggots, then air, reducing as something nameless moved in. The seven-day death march was odd and agonizing, as the bird carcass played out in public its private, humiliating dissolve. I squeaked by in sneakers, clutching a beach towel. My older brothers and sister walked by, disinterested. I had nothing to say about it, no one to say it to.