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A Quarterly Journal
Jeffrey Woodward, Founder & General Editor
Volume 8, Number 3, September 2014


Rochelle Potkar
Mumbai, Maharashtra, India


Aparanta comes alive in the way the sculptor chooses square sand grains over round, surf-kissed ones. Square grains stick better. He pounds them into place with water, like hope, block upon block and removes the moulds with fine knives, when it turns hard like belief. He chisels her into desire, lust, love, prosperity. The strands of her hair, poise over shoulder, nose curves, eyelashes. Freckles, frown, the heaviness of lips. Her gaze is set to a dream, bosom made heavy of sand brought from the riverbed.

All come to see her now for the one flash that can set them free. Their eyes rove with hunger, searching her, as if staring into a mirror to become another person. So they can go back to their clockwork cities and say, "You know what happened to me once in Aparanta?"

They have to be quick. The sea breeze breaks thick, carving out new expressions over her face each minute.

the sun shaping trees
on her dungeon pane



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