Sara Sarna
CONTACT:
Email: sarna1991@hotmail.com
Website: sarasarna.com
Facebook: Poet Sara Sarna
BIO:
Sara Sarna grew up in a military household and had no idea what putting down roots was like until well into adulthood. She is now happily rooted with her husband in the woods of Southeastern Wisconsin where she writes, hikes, and performs onstage at local theatres. Her work has been published in print and online and has been heard from radio and stage. She would tell you her poetry falls into three categories: nature, life stuff, and "I might have been mad when I wrote this.” In late 2020, her chapbook, Whispers from a Bench, was published.
PUBLICATIONS:
Whispers from a Bench (chapbook).
Poetry
Baggage
She talks to herself,
I think.
There is no one I can see.
Above scruffy canvas shoes
toothpick legs extend
to shorts, then summer top
covered by unzipped hoodie.
Drenched in ninety degree sweat
I marvel at her disregard
for heat.
The handle of a rolling suitcase
fills one hand.
In her other,
a tire.
She walks the middle of the road,
the one above the embankment
descending to the Pasadena Freeway,
chain link fence to hold it back
lest delusions of grandeur
coax it into interstate traffic.
With more strength
than size warrants
she flings the tire
over the fence.
I lose sight of it in the tangle
of growth on the hill.
On she walks,
like the tire never was,
like the middle of the road
is her beaten path,
like we all tow baggage.
—Originally published online by Front Porch Review July 2020
Apocalyptic Menu
What is on your plate
on the eve of the apocalypse?
Perhaps oatmeal, oatmeal is good
for stick to your ribs,
not knowing when or if
you’ll eat again.
Or does filling your belly and blood
with spirits sound more appropriate?
Maybe a vegan considers
cheese omelet
when faced with destruction
on a global scale.
A charcuterie board for me,
a burger for you,
a wine made from sour grapes
to pair with impending doom.
If tree bark is on the menu
post planet purge,
we must remember to give thanks
for the trees that still stand
despite the world burning.
How shall we dine tonight, my love,
while we have teeth
and sight to appreciate presentation?
Enjoy what is left us
but don’t drink the water.
That’s how it begins.
—Originally published in Bramble Winter/Spring 2022