ABSTRACT
I have corpse envy. At the end of yoga class we do corpse pose, savasana: dress rehearsal for the morgue. I’d planned to write an essay about how literature should start enjoying its own corpse mode, its oft-foretold senescence; I’d planned to become an expert on corpse pose, to analyze what I feel lying on a blue yoga mat, waiting for the bell to ring, savoring my slack-jawed simulation of interment. I’d planned to divagate on corpse pose’s relevance to contemporary literary practice, but then, yesterday at noon, my stepfather died. What if the rigmarole surrounding my stepfather’s corpse—figuring out funeral arrangements or letting my older brother handle them while I stand idle—ruins the essay I’ve promised to deliver? I’ve sworn to write a piece entitled “Corpse pose,” but now I must fly to California to deal with a real corpse.
