In lieu of an abstract, here is a brief excerpt of the content:

28 Underpass His carapace a cave-in, the dead armadillo lies beside the curb like a piece of broken pottery. The smell hovered here a week. Twice each day on my bike I passed through his cloud, the vapor of him that leaked out, out, until now, he’s hollow. I’d forget, enter his space, remember; bungled into death’s dialogue bubble, I’d read: mistake, calamity. As he disarticulates into the street, I pedal past, wary of traffic, wearing my shell of a helmet, my reflectors, and think each time of last year’s possum. She lay close by, growing flatter, less distinct, yet still there from October to August if you knew where to look. The odor gone, I marked her slow progress going and coming. Traffic on the overpass above pounding in my ears, I kept up my 29 devotion, remarking to myself the nature of that particular dark, flaking scrap of steamrollered trash among the wrappers and cans. Then I hopped the curb, hooked a left, and headed up the creek she’d been trying to reach. ...

Share