Beyond the Body: Evidence for the Soul They will try to explain it away. Living is firm and grasped in neurons—an airtight terrarium’s fist—elliptical and meaningless in its many rebirths. Here, you can watch all the phases: green leaves, the town’s many children; old roots, the traditions that ground them; mushrooms, the same across all metaphors—sheets on deathbeds. Soil sinks to the bottom, leaves rise against the glass. They say living is a habit, triclinic, its crystals growing into the same oblique framework: bones, roots, and everything else. We live in its music, they tell you, so choose a key. Major or minor. Make sure to end on the same note. Close the loop, let the leaf become leaf again. Life is a thing to be repackaged and resold. But listen to the hauntings in the jar flash in the sunlight. There is a fluorescence you can’t flush out: it’s in the moment before it’s gone. See how the luster shifts when you squint your eyes and slant your head?
Estan Rodriguez is a young poet living in the United States. His work is published or forthcoming in Eunoia Review, Beaver Mag., and elsewhere. You can try to find him birdwatching on Saturday mornings, but he walks quietly and doesn’t leave a trace.