corpse ovenbird I drag the limp, unresponsive body of Christmas down my stairs after zipping its artificial pine limbs into a massive plastic bag. January 2nd always smells a little like murder, all the sparkle gone right out of the eye of the dying year. I hack the remnants of the holidays into manageable chunks—the bells and fake greenery go in one box, the lights and stockings in another, the wreath (once so lively) goes straight into the communal garbage bin. I use scissors to cut the tendons that hold bright bulbs to my balcony railings. I’m merciless. No pinecone or holly berry remains. It all gets swept and bleached and wiped for finger prints. I’ll get away with it, stashing the corpse under my stairs, until I haul it out again next year, jolt it to life like Victor Frankenstein drunk on port wine and brandy soaked mincemeat, make it dance, only to slit its throat when the number on the calendar turns over. This is my job now—pump life into the heart of the season only to change my mind at the last moment, and let January have its predatory way with the light. 260102 what's it to you? who go blather from