Prose

“Who here thinks we’ve done enough window shopping?” The Sixth Dakini is caterwauling, yodels from the Apennines. “Who here wants a new harvest of radish for Ganapati so he’ll live with us in the African baobabs?” The local government is in cahoots with the other deities on the picula fruit and how to import them, their prize ice-blue skin over deep-yellow core. It isn’t just the environment for which goddess Sarasvati grieved – it was the sudden silence that curdled around the empty porches and driveways. The Golden Dharmachakra is wheeling itself down the durable outer face, its eight spokes leaving themselves behind for a nobler restoration. “Take this tantric metaphor,” Sarasvati cries, her tear lifted off her cheek with a finger, “put it in a blunger and make it a potter’s slip.” 


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