Four Poems by Mia Sara

Mia Sara

Mia Sara

Mia Sara, a film and television actress for many frenetic years has found her form at last, in poetry. Her work has been published, or is forthcoming in, Pembroke Magazine, poemmemoirstory, The Write Room, Forge, Helix, Pank, and Cultural Weekly, among others, and she is a regular contributor to Pank’s blog. She lives in Los Angeles and New York City with her husband, Brian Henson, and her two children. 




We’re an awkward pair.
I’m losing my sight;
he thinks he’s seen it all.

The span of his shoulders
might suggest a man’s breadth,
but the furze on his chin,

odd sprouts of chaos there,
like my inevitable neck.
Nature’s surge, and slump.


Now, he’s old enough to know
about the deal we make.

The two-for-one bargain
with the hidden costs.

Love, that blue-eyed boy,
and loss, his ugly brother.


If I could, I’d
sneak into his skin.

I’d restock the shelves,
mop up the fetid mess of heartbreak,

leave the empties for recycling into song.
But I’d take back the peace of mind he swallowed
along with all those pills.


He just won’t take “yes” for an answer,
but when I speak in tongues,
“All hat, no cattle,” he locks his face
and swallows the key
before I have the chance to say.
I meant to say.

I want to say that his wagon,
bent and creaky, riddled, ignored,
was built to last.
And even if he never ponies up,
would carry him home again.


What if Mother is too big
a thing to be, too big to slip
between the cracks to reach him?


“Fine,” I say, “go,” and what I don’t say
fills the empty room.

And he’s not buying them

my words, worn from all the door-to-door,
can’t even get a foot in.

I could still catch him,
but if he wants to fall, he’ll fall.


Mother: worried, patient,
forgiving, self-sacrificing.

Son: “Are you done yet?”


I can’t get him close enough.
As only,

in the morning of the day I
pushed the limit of my body

and his from mine.
We met across the divide.


Go ahead. Grow up.
Go it alone, while
I turn my back, on

the tangled limbs,
the poison weed,
the honeyed trap, waiting
for my catch of love.

Child, to mother with
child to man.

We were never really
out of the woods


He used to hold my neck
until he fell asleep.

I could have let him cry it out.
Should not have played

transitional object.
Was that the mistake?

The mistake I made.
Not wanting tears, but

feeling trapped there,
his hand on my throat.

My need, my inconsolable,
biological, noose.


They tell me it’s just the age,
but that’s not the point.
I think his rage is the point.
I think my love is the point:
it’s hunger. I think the hunger never ends.
This was always part of the plan,
this window shutting.
I press my nose against the glass,
fogging it with my own breath.