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A Quarterly Journal
Jeffrey Woodward, Founder & General Editor
Volume 8, Number 4, December 2014


Rochelle Potkar
Mumbai, Maharashtra, India


Life after death is not about soul-recycling, incarnations. Before the soul pulls away to ether through ten dimensions, the realms of knowledge to the feet of light, it leaves behind its old coat, jacket, garment in dirt, mud, grit. Glove slips from finger, rings from toe, tongue from cheek, energy from promises, love from hope, hope from memory.

In this dark abyss, cells emit CO2 in a stream like steam from a train, smoke from a chimney. It turns into glue what was once your beauty. Bacteria, fungi, microbes melt your nationality, color of skin. Sulphur, freon, benzine, carbon tetrachloride evaporate your caste, creed, religion. Maggots, beetles eat your Easter flesh, identity. Bones divide protein into dust and your once-ago body breeds trees. Then, the soul sings in a mynah bird, a parakeet, a guava fruit seed, a Newton's apple.

fading moon . . .
the head count ritual
of stolen children



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