from the dining table
by sara formanek
[font used : lateef & cedarville cursive] [programs used : google docs and canva] [cover art : by briscoe park] [sketch on page 6 by michael de alba
table of contents fence sitter………………………………………..1 if my feelings were people…………….……………..2 bitter coffee……………………………………….3 if i were a poem…………………………………...4 home…………………………………………….5 he waits for no one………………………………...6 things that fall……………………………....…….7 6ft below………………………………………...9 somewhere in Cape Cod, Massachusetts……………….10 unspoken words…………………………………..12
fence sitter
i am a fence sitter and as uncomfortable as it may be, i prefer it. i prefer sitting with the familiarity of wire digging into my skin, i prefer not picking which side of the ground to land on because i don't know which will give below my feet. i prefer it.
if my feelings were people
sadness would let me cry on his shoulder when i’ve had yet another shitty day. loneliness would walk next to me on the sidewalk but never actually introduce himself. resentment would accompany me to a bar where emptiness would pour me another glass, sinking me deeper to the depths of the vodka bottle. anger would flick the lighter, smiling wickedly as anxiety tries to tell him no again. grief would come with me to my mother’s grave and leave pink tulips in her memory.
bitter coffee
the clock reads 5:23 A.M., it’s still dark out. her feet are cold against the tiled floor as she slips out of bed, it’s snowing gently outside. she plugs in the coffee maker and leans against the counter in tired silence as the coffee slowly drips into the pot. heavy bags hang under her half closed eyes as she glances out the frost ridden window. bleary lights glow through the damp snow, as the grumble of a passing car comes then fades. the instant coffee is bitter and already beginning to go cold.
if i were a poem
if i were a poem, the pen would bleed through the paper leaving ink stained hands behind. my sentences would clash together like the waves of the ocean, like the thoughts in my mind. if i were a poem, the run-on sentences would run on forever searching for you.
home
i’m sitting on some dock, at some house, with you. the air is cold against my skin but your breath is hot. the cigarette is burning out and the silence is growing, but it’s comfortable. your head is resting on my shoulder and little tufts of hair are sticking out from the hood of your jacket, like usual. lights reflecting on the water sparkle and the noise of distant construction is comforting. you can't see my face but i'm smiling.
he waits for no one
time has a funny way of running away from us, from me. sometimes he stays for dinner and even dessert and cards after but lately when he sees you, he takes off. “what's the rush?” i ask him. he only smiles in return and says “sorry i gotta run.”
things that fall
teardrops from the eyes of broken hearted people that deserved more than the people who broke their hearts. petals from neglected flowers that never even met the inside of a vase, leftover from a mediocre valentine’s day. shooting stars that people wish upon when in reality they are just balls of gas burning up upon entry into the atmosphere. snowflakes and raindrops condemned to land on the earth that its inhabitants take for granted. the sun after an exhausting day of burning himself out for the moon and planets around him. people.
people fall in love as quickly as they fall out, they are forever, eternally, falling with the teardrops and petals and stars and snowflakes and raindrops and the sun.
6ft below locked away are the ruins of her life, fragments of memories crammed into an old jewelry box now suffocated with dirt and roots. the termites gnaw away at the wood leaving little holes in the corners for her secrets to slip out of and escape. the photographs stored inside are aged, warped, yellowed, unrecognizable like the ghosts of the people captured in time.
somewhere in Cape Cod, Massachusetts the drive to my grandma’s is quiet the blades of grass whistle along with the tune on the radio. i wonder if i'm going to see the car this summer. every year when i pass by this wild, overgrown field welcoming me to Cape Cod, i smile at the old, blue beetle sitting lonesome in the field. it became a habit to look for it every time i came. the summer i started middle school, driving by, i stopped to pull over, something was different. the car looked lower in the field, like it had sunk slightly. getting out i saw the tires were gone. “stolen by hooligans,” said grandma. the summer i turned 16 the car windows had been smashed in, beer bottles and trash littered the grass surrounding it. the frame had long began to rust and the blue paint was chipping off faster than the summer before. the summer after i graduated highschool, it was the last time for a while i’d be seeing
the car, and my grandma. as usual, i drove by the “Welcome to Cape Cod” sign and turned to look for the car. except there was no car. “it was set on fire,” “almost burnt the whole field down” grandma said. they took it away after that.
unspoken words
i want to be the one you think about when you wake up and again when you fall asleep. i want to pick the fuzz off your clothing and sit in comfortable silence with you, i want to go grocery shopping together and argue about what flavor ice cream to buy, i want to be the one. i want to clean your glasses when i get my fingerprints all over them, i want to inhale your scent and never forget the way you smell, i want to be the one you love.