5.07 I leave the room and enter the room
Sara Munjack
of this mid-century gothic home—
wainscoting at eyelevel and a wrapped pothos
around exposed piping. An oak tree grows
in the center of the room, ensconced in tall glass.
In this room, my father is relishing some
unknown secret:
the ending to a movie
some forgotten catchphrase
the way to raise a child as if graphed and calculated.
In this room, my mother gathers dried sunflowers
from a box with the dog’s ashes, miming
the words to her own mantra. Most people
like to live.
I leave the room and I fear
the becoming of them,
so I will myself new.
I enter this room now—
every person who has held me stands
in this room. I gather myself in the corner,
finger a lace window curtain.
There is only one path out of the room.
In this iteration of the room
I eat leftover clafoutis in bed.
There is shame in this act.
I’m dehydrated.
I know this because after every swallow
I begin at the beginning
again I leave the room.
+ On the Process
I had the photos hung up as a diptych for a while on the wall and just monitored how I felt when observing them. The images, titled "inside the mansion inside the snowglobe," caused a drowning sensation. This rendered as a poem about being trapped in a room—except the room for me embodied memories of childhood.
+ On Issue Five
It's amazing how even if the medium fluctuates, the same feelings or thoughts can still be evoked. I loved seeing my poem rendered as a painting—it made total sense to see my reality reflected in someone else's. I did notice that the theme of "cement" didn't always uphold, but that's ok, because the remnants of the idea were still translated along, sometimes appearing more or less in a person's piece.
+ Bio
Sara Munjack holds an MFA from Rutgers-Newark and works at The Academy of American Poets. She has poems published in Gandy Dancer, ISO Magazine, Cosmonauts Avenue, Pigeon Pages, BOAAT, and forthcoming in Grist Journal. You can find her on Instagram at @cere__bellum.
