Entries by Roxanne Claire
Spilled Tears
I’ve been collecting my tears. Tiny bottles with stoppers are next to my bed, on my kitchen counter, in my car’s gear well, and at my art studio. Their contents are somewhat misleading because the stoppers are not airtight, allowing tears to evaporate, leaving an amber residue. But, clearly, I’ve cried most often in bed […]
I Usually Drink My Tea Black
One reliable measure of my day is how much sugar I put in my tea. This morning I filled half my dessert spoon from last night. (That I nibbled on something sweet before bed tells you something about my state of mind then.) Funny, I would have thought I needed more.
That Which I Refuse in Myself
That which I refuse in myself, says Jung, will appear in my life as an event. The day started off well. I felt good, strong, confident. As the hours passed, a weight in my stomach slowly grew and I felt myself sicken. I became distracted. Unable to focus, I wandered the house. Made cup of […]
Elsewhere
One of my friends in mourning posted on Facebook yesterday, abiding love for the departed in every word. Half way through, I burst into tears and began to keen, the sound guttural and unrecognizable as my own. This morning I went to the bookshelf, looking for a poem I once read to the one who […]
We Don’t Shoot Our Wounded
Anger molten as the Earth’s core and just as deep. Cooled by a remark made by a woman I had just met. Betrayed too she was angry enough she said “to want to smack them.” But sighing she said “We don’t shoot our wounded.” And just like that I was reminded of the unacknowledged agony […]
Lies I Have Told
It’s OK. It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t bother me. I’m OK. Nothing’s the matter. I don’t mind. I’d like to. I didn’t say that. I didn’t do it. I didn’t mean it that way. No. Yes. I did do it. I would never do that. I’m fine.
Which?
The blip on the horizon which slowly comes into horrifyingly clear view or the sudden flash, annihilation without warning. My father lingered for several days giving his children time. My stepfather was a phone call from the police in the middle of the night. Which? The agony of waiting or finality without farewell?