Prose

Near another Lunar New Year, Marilyn Levine is tired of making briefcases and jackets out of ceramics and zippers when Michael Lucero tells her to restore the candour, his Roman statue wishing the coathanger had the same red as the teapot. This evening, the dakinis expect a conchoidal fracture. The reception has thus filled itself with more traditional fare the likes of green celadon – John Takehara under a tidier density and Rick Sherman’s batter bowl ridding itself of its red iron oxide to look paler, like one of those Kanebo liquid foundations. “If you go the way of hypostasis, you’ll see the drizzle light we talk so much about,” the Fourth Dakini, who seems always the most far-flung, offers his piece of advice. “You’ll end up the middle of nowhere, and still see the liquid sky blues in the white, all in the eye of a pulse and a breeze.”



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