'Claire of the moon'

A prose poem that doesn't answer why Claire left or where she went to.

Epistle to Carol

'Claire of the moon'

She felt she didn’t have much choice after Mariposa told her moonbeams could not be held forever. The walls were shutting her in. Her world becoming smaller each day as her circle of friends died or left. So she left, too. Better to leave than die in this place, she thought.

It was no rash decision. Oh, for sure, to others it seemed that way — take off in the middle of the night — only to call days later from a pay phone in another state. What state she wouldn’t say. No, it had been planned for years. Each detail considered and fretted over until the dream became a nightmare. It was a choice between waking up or running away. In the end she decided both would do. She awoke that night and ran for her life. No one pursued, of course. There was no one left that cared that much.

In retrospect, to stay would’ve been a slow death, she concluded. She had chosen life.

Claire left like moonlight in a Debussy nocturne: sweet, lingering, ethereal. By dawn, just a memory remained to be pressed between pages by those few who still cared enough. She was light, after all, and needed to shine in another clime to recharge her batteries battered by the ruts and rust of mediocrity and humdrum. She needed to glow. So, she left.

There are still those who wonder where she went.

And occasionally they hear her voice over the telephone, in a letter or in songs sung sweet and low, in high notes twinkling. But know? No, they’ll never know. Claire is beyond their experience, on another plane. She went where her light would illumine those who have the capacity to receive her pure energy, a place without an address, where the Moon pays her homage every night.


Kåre Enga © 2003

Catalogue number: [160.673]
12 desember 2003.

Notes: This is in response to Susan Michael’s writing exercise: “Why Claire left …”.

Mariposa is Spanish for “butterfly” and we all know what happens if we hold a butterfly too long. Claire is French for “light”. One of Claude Debussy’s most famous works is “Claire de lune” (light of the moon or moonlight) which is the title of a very famous poem of Verlaine.

Decided to dedicate this to my cousin Carol Johnson who told me to pack up my car and leave. And I did.