Words and images by Robin Sierra

I am collecting tears. some are in small cerrulean blue glass bottles that are the shape of fish.  some are in square amber bottles that catch the light when the sun comes through my window at the end of day.

Many are in battered white plastic buckets with handles….you know, like the ones sitting in your garage, letters worn off, once used to mop the floor and now so full the tears are slipping over the edge, streaming down the sides like a gentle waterfall.

Tears are in silver saucepans once used to cook vegetables and blue enameled soup pots splattered with white speckles…the kind you take camping and set atop a yellow orange fire near but not too near your  tent.

Tears are in aluminum cans that once held lentil soup, green beans, evaporated milk.  they are lining shelves that were once bursting with books. (books on how to become more spiritual, be a better person, rid yourelf of psychological pathologies, novels and oracular texts). they are in vitamin bottles and forest green decanters that once were slick with virgin olive oil.  they fill my closet where there used to be sweaters and pants.

They are spilling over  tibetan brass bowls, when were struck with a wooden stick, signaled the beginning and ending of meditation and whose meliflous ring rippled through the air until the sound became as thin as an echo.

Soon there will not be room for my bed.  i have been collecting these tears for five years. maybe i will be collecting them still when Charon ferries me to the other side of the river.  they are not just mine. they are tears from Syria, from China, from Kentucky.  they are tears from new borns and from elephants.

My socks are soaked.  Anyone entering will need rubber boots if they want to stay dry.