Prose

“If you can’t find my hairdryer,” the Second Dakini says, “there’s the Bradley in the restroom.” The Bradley can be meaningfully worked into the Third Dakini’s slab of brick clay, now tightly wrapped in plastic to help keep in the moisture. “Clay reconstitutes itself,” the Second Dakini seems insistent on making such gendered statements, as the Bradley tosses its luster, and takes in rust like a new leavening. “Clay is an involuntary displacement too,” the First Dakini radiates like a crystalline rock. “Clay will give you five handles and rhetorical instruction like cup-and-saucer landforms.” But the Third Dakini has escaped through the coupled roof, into the incumbent on a slant, the cant of the naysayers just as conceptual, just as au courant a sound. On the far right, that temple in Thailand is gaining excellent karma, its million green bottles hanging on the wall, and if one should accidentally fall, the Indian Ocean would churn, heliodor again.


* This piece first appeared in PANK, a literary journal out of Michigan.