Accounted For

Tantra

43 Tantra Looking down into the bones of a dead coyote—dizzying as the desert expands and whirls back up the skull. A snake floats with its rattle across the sky, new clouds pushing the pink with reticence. This is when she knows your birth, your death— Without the black brassiere she runs back to the car for the arduous eating of salad, a wedge of cheese you share with bread and tea. You know the heft of your laughter, that crow raising a stick twice its size. Quickly, you hand her a peach out of the wicker basket over your phallus. Earth now, spinning on its axis. ...