Font Literary and Arts Magazine Fall 2021

LITERARY AND ARTS MAGAZINE Volume 17 Fall 2021

CONTENT WARNING: Some pieces featured in Font involve themes that may be upsetting or triggering in nature to certain audiences.

HOFSTRA ENGLISH SOCIETY 203 Student Center Hofstra University Hempstead, NY 11549 hofenglishsociety@gmail.com facebook.com/hofenglishsociety twitter.com/hofengsoc instagram.com/hofenglishsociety issuu.com/hofenglishsociety Front cover art: “Distortion,” Sabrina Blandon

DISCLAIMER Font exclusively features the work of Hofstra University students.

Each staff member reviewed and ranked submissions blindly.

Font Literary and Arts Magazine, Volume 17, Fall 2021. Hofstra University. Copyright 2021 Font Literary and Art. All artwork and literature contained in this publication are copyright 2021 to their respective creators. The ideas and opinions expressed within belong to the respective authors and artists and do not necessarily reflect those of the editors, Hofstra University administrators, or the Hofstra community. Any similarities to persons living or dead are purely coincidental. None of the contents of this publication may be reprinted without the permission of the individual authors or artists.

PRINTED IN USA

A PRODUCTION OF THE HOFSTRA ENGLISH SOCIETY

STAFF EDITORS-IN-CHIEF Jocelyn Disselkoen Ally Herrington MANAGING EDITOR Kaitlyn Kinnard

DESIGN EDITOR Daniela Wydler

HEAD COPY EDITOR Dickinson-Frevola ASSOCIATE DESIGN EDITORS Lex Besecker AJ Herlong COPY EDITORS Andrew Cardell Marissa Feiler Julianna Grossman Josie Racette Roddyna B. Saint-Paul GENERAL STAFF Abderrazak Bammou Sabrina Josephson Sabrina Blandon Aissatou Ndiour Madison Donnelly Nell Stultz Donovan Ellis Manasvi Vietla Isabelle Jensen SPECIAL THANKS Erik Brogger Stan Cherian Karyn Valerius Hofstra University English Department

CHIEF EDITORS’ LETTERS Dear Reader, Thank you so much for picking up this issue of Font! It’s been such a blast making this magazine, and I’m so glad it fell into the hands of someone so great. In a few pages, you’ll get to the meat of the magazine, but first, I wanted to have a few words with you. You’re welcome to turn the page now and get on with reading the incredible pieces we selected for this issue; however, I hope you’ll indulge me.

As you read this issue of Font, you might see some small stylistic changes from previous issues. Hopefully, they won’t be too jarring—if this is your first time reading Font, you probably won’t even notice them (also: hi! We’re happy to have you). But when we made this issue, it was clear very quickly that this wasn’t going to be exactly the same as it’s always been. I could get deep here and remind you all about the pandemic we’re in, expound on some nebulous “new normal,” but the truth is that we’ve had a ton of new blood here on the Font staff. I just transferred to Hofstra this semester, and I know I’m not the only new face that helped make this magazine happen this year. This transfusion means that we had some new ideas, and we hope you’ll all like them as well as we do.

What you’re about to read is some fantastic poetry, some sparkling prose, and some absolutely stellar artwork. Everything in it was made and submitted by Hofstra students, who I’d like to thank for sharing their work with us; it was put together by the wonderful staff of Font, who I’d like to thank for taking a chance on me as Co-Editor-in-Chief; and it’s about to be read by you—who I’d like to thank again for choosing to read this labor of love. I hope you enjoy it as much as I enjoyed helping to make it.

Jocelyn Disselkoen, Editor-In-Chief

Dear Reader, The unique power of poetry and prose lies in its misdirection. It is weaponized concision and metaphor, a visceral marriage between composition and abstraction. We make allusions to nature to communicate concealed emotion, indent to separate and punctuate thoughts and let the audience feel as the words flow on the page before them. It is a writing form that I think people tend to wrongly associate with whimsy and heartbreak but has so much to offer than people give it credit for. Font is a testament to the broader abilities of the medium. In this issue alone, we are granted insight into grief following the loss of a loved one, orthodontic disdain, interpretations of gender identity, and even a comedic take on UTIs. For those of our readers who haven’t had much exposure to poetry or prose, I hope this issue encourages you to explore the genre further. And to our regular readers, welcome back, and thank you for your continued support.

I feel especially proud of this issue because it is my first with the Hofstra English Society. As a freshman at Hofstra, I feel incredibly honored to have been given so much creative influence over the layout of Font. Following the last two year’s interruptions and redirections, our creative staff saw fit to redirect the visual aesthetic of the magazine as well. Fonts and formats have been adjusted to breathe new life into the magazine, though at its heart, it is the same poetry and prose magazine which has been carefully assembled from the selected works of our school’s writers and poets.

Thank you to everyone who submitted their work for this issue, and a special thank you to everyone in the Hofstra English Society who encouraged and put their faith in the abilities of my co-editor-in-chief and me.

Ally Herrington, Editor-In-Chief

CONTENTS Ship of Theseus old room My Collection Welcome Aboard A dollar, a dollar Visibility Tsunami Spring Judith Beheading Holofernes Passive A Rainy Day in London Infinite McDonald’s Parking Lot Ensnared by Your Twisted Love A Touch of Beauty the livelihood of a bee Little Life Dear Body breathe lack of soul Growth Invisible Our Walls Death inside of an organ that doesn’t exist

9 10 11 12 14 15 16 17 18 19 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 27 28 29 30 32 33

Julianna Grossman Dickinson-Frevola Gabby Luftschein Isabelle Jensen Alex Attilli Dickinson-Frevola Alicia C. Renda Jasleen Nijjar Dickinson-Frevola Debbie Aspromonti Jasleen Nijjar Jasleen Nijjar Alicia C. Renda Daniel DeCrescenzo Jasleen Nijjar Sabrina Blandon Josie Racette Isabelle Jensen Ellisa Lee Sabrina Blandon Morgan Johanson Lexi Lowe Isabelle Jensen Jasleen Nijjar Andrew Cardell

TD Roddyna B. Saint-Paul Andrew Cardell Andrew Cardell Jessica Mannhaupt Andrew Cardell TD

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Lauren Ballinger Sabrina Blandon Lexi Lowe Sabrina Blandon Bridget Miller Roddyna B. Saint-Paul Sabrina Blandon Dickinson-Frevola Lexi Lowe Dickinson-Frevola Andrew Cardell Sabrina Blandon Julianna Grossman

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Debbie Aspromonti Alicia C. Renda Dickinson-Frevola Roddyna B. Saint-Paul

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mapping the self Rock Collections is it giving? one nine and two ones frog prince stop it with the teeth gender? i barely know her (pt. 2 the sequel) L@FS Jaded Losing Greys the absence of scattered rain Admit One Woman on the Walls Windows to the Soul in lieu of an original, i’d like to imitate Last Touch in the forest wax Game Over Eye Movement Desensitization and Reprocessing You and I Fig&Wasp creation On Behalf of the Overwhelmed Protagonist

CONTENTS

Ship of Theseus Julianna Grossman I was born with a brain and like a car it needed replacements.

Spark plugs and scripts Brake pads and sedatives Oil changes and stabilizers Each new part meticulously adjusted to work in harmony Until I am a car without a God-given engine of her own.

And I am left wondering, whether or not an object such as myself with so many components replaced remains fundamentally me.

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“old room,” Dickinson-Frevola

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My Collection Gabby Luftschein A greener me once kept a drawer of treasures.

Buttons, paper clips, rocks, anything miniature— my drawer was overflowing with nothing.

And then all my stuff was packed away.

My collection dissolved right back to where it came from, never to be seen again.

All that was left was a doily that had clung to my clothes.

Lacy and soft in my worn hands.

So I started a drawer of people.

I hoarded them, really like souvenirs.

Names and faces of friends of friends or a “someone who I knew once.”

My drawer was overflowing with nothing.

Crocheted chains connected us carefully— six degrees of separation.

But then someone’s smile surrounded me suddenly, a soft spot on my jagged life.

And now if my whole collection is packed away, dissolved right back where it came from, never to be seen again, I just hope that he will hold on to my heart the way the doily clung to my clothes.

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Welcome Aboard Isabelle Jensen Ladies and gentlemen, my name is Help and I’m your chief flight attendant. On behalf of Captain Cause and Effect, myself, and the entire crew, welcome aboard Life Airlines, flight your fault, with non-stop service from home to a place you’re not sure you belong. Let us know if you want a connecting flight back home when the lack of familiarity scares you too much.

Our flight time will be until you learn to accept that belonging is a feeling you must give yourself.

When the seat belt sign illuminates, you must fasten your seat belt. Insert the metal fittings into one another and tighten by pulling on the loose end of the strap. Continue to pull until your ribcage screams. No matter how hard you pull you will not feel secure. It will remind you that wherever you end up will be different than here. It will remind you that different often means worse.

To release your seat belt, lift the upper portion of the buckle. This freedom is a facade. You can move around the cabin, but we recommend that you keep your seat belt fastened throughout the flight, as we may experience turbulence. The turbulence is trying to warn you that you should have stayed home. It is scaring you back to your mommy. Leave if you can’t grow up.

There are several emergency exits on this aircraft. Please take a few moments now to locate your nearest exit. In some cases, your nearest exit may be behind you.

You did not realize you could have escaped until you already passed it. Maybe it was a job you were offered but turned down. Maybe it was an ex that you could have left earlier. Maybe it was a class you thought did not matter. Regardless, please keep in mind it was your fault.

If we need to evacuate the aircraft, doors can be opened by moving the handle in the direction of the arrow. Each door is equipped with an inflatable slide which may also be detached and used as a life raft. Should we crash, you will forget about the slide or the life raft. You will only blame yourself. You will jump out in hopes that the plane was the problem. As you sink into the water you will wish you had listened instead of turning up your headphones.

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You will call out to me Help! Help! Please save me! I’m going to drown! Please HELP! I will not.

I have other passengers to attend to.

You crashed your own plane.

You got scared.

We did warn you.

Oxygen and air pressure are always being monitored. In the event of a decompression, an oxygen mask will automatically appear in front of you. To start the flow of oxygen, pull the mask towards you. Place it firmly over your nose and mouth, secure the elastic band behind your head, and breathe normally. A panic attack will not save you. Breathe normally. Everyone else can do it, why can’t you?

Breathe normally. If you don’t calm down, you will die.

Although the bag does not inflate, oxygen is flowing to the mask. If you are traveling with a child or someone who requires assistance, secure your mask first, and do not touch the other person. They do not need you ruining it for them.

Trust that they know better than you. Keep your mask on until a uniformed crew member advises you to remove it.

In the event of an emergency, please assume the bracing position. (Lean forward with your hands on top of your head and your elbows against your thighs. Ensure your feet are flat on the floor.) If you die this way no one will remember you the way you wanted.

At this time, your portable electronic devices must be set to ‘airplane’ mode to ensure you cannot call for outside help or advice.

We remind you that this is a self-love and comfort-free flight. Tampering with, disabling, or destroying our detectors is prohibited by law.

You will find this and all the other safety information in the card located in the seat pocket in front of you. If you have any questions, please hesitate to ask one of our crew members. We wish you an enjoyable flight.

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A dollar, a dollar Alex Attilli

A dollar, a dollar, A nickel, a penny, Plastic and scraps and whatever they left me.

A dollar, a dollar, I memorize faces, The nasty and boorish, the loud and vivacious.

A dollar, a dollar, Napkins and numbers, A mild empty smile and counterfeit laughter,

A dollar, a dollar, And in God I trust, 1 day I might leave, 1 day there’s no rush;

A dollar, a dollar, Drops and complaints, Words cut like glass on a scalding hot plate.

A dollar, a dollar, I cry, “And for what?”

Pink lemonade on receipt-paper cuts?

A dollar, a dollar, I’m scribbling and scrambling, Feet flushed with fury yet anxiously waiting;

A dollar, a dollar, To most, I’m a stranger, Faceless in memory, a voiceless spectator.

A dollar, a dollar, They leave and I pray, I pocket my pay and go on with the day.

A dollar, a dollar, To few, I’m a friend, Grinning and chatting until my shift ends,

A dollar, a dollar I work for a pittance, Quarters and dimes to be trapped in an apron—

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A dollar, a dollar, What’s left is what’s mine, Though I huff at the rude, I remember the kind.

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“Visibility,” Dickinson Frevola

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The Tsunami in the Sky Alicia Renda The bird with a gun is back again, my grandmother says.

He’s pointing the gun at my head, my grandmother says.

Why won’t anyone do anything, my grandmother screams.

Why won’t anyone save me?

When my grandmother can bring herself beyond the door darkened by shadows and burdened by birds, she’ll sit on the porch staring at cremated, orange hues falling from the sunset.

A tsunami, she calls it, covering her face with her hands, hoping they will keep her dry as the sky collapses in a tidal wave.

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“Spring,” Jasleen Nijjar

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Judith Beheading Holofernes an ode to Artemisia Gentileschi’s painting, 1612-1613 Dickinson-Frevola Hair knotted in my hands, woven through the locks.

Women’s hands for weaving, for nurturing; for building, for growing. I take my people upon my back and lift them from under the boot of Assyria, I take your life in my hands and the gentle doves of my fingers draw your neck taut. I feel her weight next to me, and I feel the weight of my nation in the palm of my hand.

The hilt is heavy and it feels like a prayer, “O Lord G-d of all might, look in this hour on the work of my hands for the exaltation of Jerusalem. Now indeed is the time to help your heritage and to carry out my design to destroy the enemies who have risen up against us.”1 Is there faith in violence? Is there G-d in blood?

My love for my people is holy and it flows as red and as freely as wine on the lips of a man who seeks power, whose lust blinds his vision. _________________________ 1 Judith 13, New Revised Standard Version

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Passive Debra Aspromonti Ashes turn to ashes A new dawn breaks I don’t know how to tell you I don’t love you The other day I caught a glimpse of your sweet smile And it’s inexplicable, I know But my first instinct was to Duck out of view Because you smile at everyone like that And sometimes I don’t know Whether you say you love me Because it’s a habit Or it’s a truth

“A Rainy Day in London,” Jasleen Nijjar

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“Infinite,” Jasleen Nijjar

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McDonald’s Parking Lot Alicia C. Renda Rubbing at the hurried blur of interrupted sleep, ears still ringing with slams and shouts, the old blue van slowly rolls its way through the McDonald’s drive thru.

The saturated golden arches staining Sunday morning with week after week of consolatory breakfast.

Mom’s way of saying it’s okay My brother cries for ice cream in the back seat and he gets it! A miraculous signal that everything is decidedly not okay.

That we are racing down an incline of sorrow.

Mom’s breaths are shaky, while Ronnie laps away at the vanilla pooling in his hand as our mother makes a mantra out of apologies.

Sorry you had to see that.

Sorry we were so loud.

Oh God, I hit him, why did I hit him?

Here, have some fries. my sister sits as silent as I do, salt and oil, greasing our fingers, as our mother begs for help, the both of us unsure what we can offer in this McDonald’s parking lot.

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Ensnared by Your Twisted Love Daniel DeCrescenzo Those nights atop your bed Stripped bare and under a spell My heart beat with dread It was a perfect Hell Your touch seared my skin And those arms bound me like chains Your embrace was nothing but sin Scorching, infernal pains Our kisses were exchanges of venom Consummations of impetuous youth All your lips did to mine was benumb Though I never revealed that truth I caressed your breasts and twirled your hair It was such a twisted fantasy Fear and desire are a devilish pair When they conspire so openly Our relationship was built on temptation Your obsession was a monstrous noose But I craved your endless veneration So I refused to cut myself loose The two of us are each other’s foils A spectrum’s opposing ends While our chances were certainly spoiled We would not have made good friends When I lie in the dark alone You haunt me like a spectre Grievances for which I cannot atone I wish I could have been better

“A Touch of Beauty,” Jasleen Nijjar FALL 2021

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the livelihood of a bee Sabrina Blandon busy is the bee who buzzes without stopping for seconds to enjoy its sweet nectar. along its wings are yellow fuzz, unaware of being on the bee’s back. both crave to have a ride with Time, chasing him until they’re nothing but dots compared to his vastness. no moment to stop to sip the nectar they worked to make day and night for all they do is continue the livelihood of a bee... working until Time runs from them.

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“Little Life,” Josie Racette

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Dear Body Isabelle Jensen Dear Body, Hi. I know I have been distant lately. For a long time now, it has been easier to villainize you than empathize. I blamed you for everything wrong. But I am not perfect either. I expected you to be incredible even when I did not know how to care for you. I put you in boiling water and then complained when you started blistering. All I could think about was your melting skin staining the carpet. I gaslighted you. Tried to make you believe you were the villain so that I could be the guiltless victim. A survivor of you. You gave me your warnings. Warnings to stop and take a break and calm down and drink water and get sleep and please help. And I told you it was fine.

I told you that you were just dramatic. After all, look at those other people, their bodies have no problem doing what they are supposed to do. I’m sorry for wishing you were those bodies. You are mine and despite both our flaws we make it work. We are not like other bodies. I wish I could go back and thank you for doing your best when I wasn’t. I blamed you for the pain when you were just reacting to a dire situation. There were problems neither of us knew how to solve.

Maybe we still don’t but at least we can see them now. Thank you for helping me see them.

Nobody told me how to treat you. Nobody told me that you might be different. They told us how you might change and grow. And we did grow. But no one told me how to treat you when things went wrong. You were supposed to be infallible. I thought you were hammer and so life became a nail. I used you for whatever I wanted regardless of what you needed. No one warned me of possible pain that came out of nowhere. We are both fragile and no one bothered to tell me. If they saw the stress why did no one tell me to breathe? We were just kids.

Nobody told me you needed love. All I knew was what I needed. I hurt you and you hurt me. And how was I supposed to not feel attacked? I felt betrayed by you.

But I see now that I made the first move. I pushed you too hard. We never did know our limits. I am in part blaming this on being young, and in part blaming this on society pretending our needs do not matter. But mostly I just want to love you again. I want to care for you when we are broken instead of accusing you of weakness. Because we are strong and we can come back from this, right?

Yours Truly, Mind and Soul

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“breathe” Ellisa Lee And I just stood there The universe experiencing life Closed my eyes and felt the rain For the sky cried when I couldn’t

lack of soul Sabrina Blandon my lack of soul is not a defect, not even a side effect, it’s just the lighthouse inside me. clearly trying to warn me of sailors with false intentions who want to steal from me. from those who want to be the wave, while I’m stuck playing the role of a rock— eroding me until I’m nothing. or even worse… those who want to snuff out the candle inside my lighthouse, to encase me with their friend Darkness.

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Growth Morgan Johanson once, I was lucky enough to have a butterfly land on the tip of my nose it flaunted its beauty and fluttered its wings right before my eyes glittering as if it were made of the finest gems and jewels reflecting rays of pure sunlight and in the few seconds that it stood on my nose only slightly stilling to rest I swear I could see my reflection in its wings, a color that could blend seamlessly with the sky

beauty unique in a way that made every one memorable showing off how much they had changed after leaving their cocoon then, I discovered a butterfly resting on the ground barely moving with a broken wing unable to fly any longer

from then on, every butterfly I saw was like absolute magic filling the air with a kind of hope that holds silent secrets of what the future will bring and carrying promises written on its wings of greatness yet to be achieved every butterfly I saw was moving with purpose fluttering too fast to stay in one place for long but never passing by without leaving a smile on the faces left behind every butterfly I saw held

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then, I noticed a butterfly flying frantically, desperate to get out of the reach of a dog whose barking was louder than the clap of thunder

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then, I realized I hadn’t seen a butterfly in quite a long while at least, not the ones I remember I no longer see the bright, bold colors of my childhood I no longer see the magic that a younger me dreamed to possess I no longer feel the purpose that once struck me like the constant beating of butterfly wings I no longer understand beauty as a thing one can simply change into, a crushing reality

do the butterflies of my youth still exist? did they ever?

“Invisible,” Lexi Lowe

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Our Walls Isabelle Jensen The walls are yellow-tinted and blank The floors a waxy tile — easy to clean I understand the past in a way I never could before It is just me here Thin sheets over wire mattress The walls feel like they are closing in If I had not already bitten my nails down to their beds I would use them to chip the paint Carve until I am satisfied Make my own design I see why children draw on walls now There is something haunting about a wall that stands only to remind you how small you are My disabled ancestors call to me I am reminded that they were put in rooms worse than this Shunned and put away Not to protect anyone’s health but to protect their perfect standard They had an expectation we were never going to meet The therapist calls because they want to know if I am okay I ask what okay means I wonder why they are really calling Maybe I am a liability They probably have good intentions but when you lock someone away Of course, they will bite the hand that feeds them It is the only hand other than their own that they have seen in days

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I am screaming Inside and out It’s almost funny that no one can hear it I wonder how loud it would have to be for someone to care Would they risk seeing me Would I open the door I think about how at least I know this is not forever If I were born a century ago They would have put me away with the other hysterical women The ones who did not conform We were just too much for those yellow walls to manage We are just too ourselves for them A burden on the state Left at the steps of the prison The object of their mockery We claw at the walls and they blame us As if they know how a wall can torture As if they know how a body can turn on itself They do not How could they All they know about disability is to cure and kill It has become subtle and better but our accommodations are just seen as costs The world asks us to love the walls that hold us And then condemn us for trying to change them

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“Death,” Jasleen Nijjar

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inside of an organ that doesn’t exist Andrew Cardell I know that power all too well my eyes rolling back in my head until it hurts it runs through me as if I was its engine you don’t seem to have it.

I want you to feel control completely you haven’t accessed it dormancy is the devil’s secret power is latent, it lays inside an organ that doesn’t exist once you know, it precipitates the power begins to form when it runs through you, it draws you to the greatest narcissism one can achieve a feeling only for you only for your pleasure the power will never do harm nor can the person who is its engine it will push them to do to do beyond themselves and turn into the only organ they need

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“mapping the self,” TD 35

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Rock Collection Roddyna B. Saint-Paul I collect rocks but none like yours

You collect rocks but none like mine

Your rocks, a gilded, glossy mélange of colors pretty and polished from years of being nursed by a river form a tangible rainbow of obsidian, crimson, and teal.

My rocks, before your perfect rainbow pile, are jagged, rough, small, and unremarkable homeless and droll they exist on their own quiet and undesirable to man.

Your rocks, silky and soft, snored silently beneath liquid sheets smoothed and soothed by the water’s caress when you saved them from cerulean depths.

My rocks, unrefined and undefined are curious and contemplative bearing witness to the world sprinting by submerged in words and motions instead of river water.

Your rocks screamed when clammy, foreign hands snatched them up from their riverbeds.

My rocks, garrulous and raw, have stories upon stories to share.

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is it giving?

Andrew Cardell the thing is though i give and i give i’m always GIVING but where is the reception this has nothing to do with a wedding reception i’m looking for reciprocity i’m looking for a new flavor flavor in the colloquial sense the english language has a lot going on can i please have some competition someone on my level this is not a joke i am being completely serious if you are laughing then that is on you and not on me the only thing on me is the weight of gravity i love gravity but also i do not like it my feelings on gravity are quite complicated anywho please put in some effort have that sales report back to me on tuesday

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one nine and two ones Andrew Cardell I am alone at home with my UTI I pronounce it like utty there is a burning inside of me since the third of march it is now the twenty third of march I decide to notify the fire department they ask if there is a fire I say yes when the fighters of fire arrive, they act confused they ask where the fire is I say it is inside me it burns when I pee they seem upset at my truth I was under the impression they fixed all forms of fire I was mistaken

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“frog prince,” Jessica Mannhaupt

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stop it with the teeth Andrew Cardell teeth require far too much upkeep i would prefer to live in a post-teeth era why am i going to an orthodontist why is an orthodontist not a specialist in birds these are the quandaries we need to discuss also why do joints wear out why does ms. nancy down the block not deserve well preserved knees what did she do did she bite the apple in the garden of eden? no. she did not. she deserves good knees did evolution really work out? chew on that with your straight teeth that you paid way too much money for from an orthodontist that shouldn’t be called an orthodontist also if you don’t have straight teeth, good for you don’t give into the man some people’s teeth are straight now but how about when they are fully eighty-two also the joints will be shot not by a gun just they won’t work anymore hope that is clear

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gender? i barely know her (pt. 2: the sequel) TD lungs full of smoke and lips stained red with wine. ‘beautiful boy,’ but in the way we say it. ‘handsome woman,’ but only said in the voice of robin williams as president theodore roosevelt in the critically acclaimed film night in the museum (2006). big sister. big brother. big pit in the middle of my stomach when she calls. the aching in my chest. the feeling of cool grass in the summer. the way the word ‘noun’ feels in your mouth. pretty boy (derogatory). pretty boy (fondly). many-eyed thing. the feeling of seeing ‘they’ be merriam-webster’s 2019 word of the year. spitting blood in the sink. fuzzy socks. the ocean pulling me out. the creature in my basement. your air when you wear heels. when the sensory overload makes me feel my body again. pass go — do not collect two hundred dollars. the tiredness in your muscles after exercising. the tiredness in your eyes after being home. a joint tucked behind your ear. wearing your shirt unbuttoned. scratch marks on your back. picking up a round stone. genderfluid. ‘oh, fuck me.’ running your hands over scars and feeling yourself bloom.

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L@FS Lauren Ballinger nothing else mattered. rich hazelnut elixir grabbed the clock’s arms by its wrist and muttered a peaceful lullaby, carrying it to the sweetest sleep it had known since eternity began. and it dripped onto my chapped lips, past my teeth, and slid down the back of my throat, making air hot like fire against my chest. it lay somewhere just below my belly, and everything in my heart was shattered and rearranged and made whole once more, this time transformed, transfixed, translucent in the moon’s glow. it brought the rose to my cheeks, as i lay the bride’s bouquet in my head. the concert hall was so romantic against the silver night, with its red lights and its rockstars carving their names into the planets that shone above. remnants of ancient deities. a love-drunk audience bleeds into the heart if you’re not too careful.

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“Jaded,” Sabrina Blandon

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“Losing Greys,” Lex Lowe

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the absence of scattered rain Sabrina Blandon the absence of scattered rain shattered my soul. longing to be fulfilled with a dire desire. harboring a hope so wilted, it’s almost rotten. gripping the falling petals, waiting to see if it’s enough. inhaling his last breath, and creating my needed rain.

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Admit One for my father

Bridget Miller

Tomorrow, You and I will board a flight And land at the summit of history.

We’ll recount the night We sang to the stars and told stories Of ghosts, like we wouldn’t become both one day.

Tomorrow, You and I will watch a ballgame Hidden in the chain link fence my memories made, Where the roar of the crowd sounds the same But I forget what teams played And the features of your face.

Today, I hold you for the last time, Then I face the future on my own.

I let your hand slip out of mine; It’s okay to go alone.

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Woman on the Walls Roddyna B. Saint-Paul

The door slams shut and the key swivels and the lock clicks. I turn to survey my cage but clicks keep coming, each one racing after the other, nipping at its heels and click, click, click echoes in my mind, bouncing from my ear to my memory and I remember hearing the click click click when I was on the other side of the door, when I was in control and when I locked the door— why fight it? Lying supine on worn wood, staring up at the ceiling, white paint chipping and scuffed from the things that he would throw and the screams that he would throw and I twist my head and see the once naked walls, yellow paint chipping and busted from his body which he would throw into these walls. Now they are decent and clothed in white sheets of paper with paintings of the paramour of his past. She peers down at me from her perch on the wall, sneering at and mocking me and I roll my eyes because he never loved her even if she thought that he loved her. I turn my head from the pathetic woman because I don’t have to look at her, and I look at a different painting but then I hear the click of her heels as she jumps into the painting in my line of sight. She continues to mock me, laughing as she starts to creep along my walls, only she can’t creep because her heels are loud like the bells that chime at every hour of every day and her heels irritate me the same way the bells do except that her heels do not ring but

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instead they click click click and I turn to rid her from my mind but she follows and the sound carries over with her painted body. She starts to scream because I refuse to stand still, and so still the clicks come, accompanying her screams like a metronome and the metronome moves faster and faster as I spin faster and faster until I stop.

Then the clicks stop and she takes her place in her painting but the screams don’t stop and now they are not punctuated by the metronome of the clicks and so they are far worse and I find that I miss the clicks. I close my eyes and she screeches at me to wake up even though I’m not sleeping. Her screams are tangible things that can pierce the yellow paint and I’m afraid for the paint because it has already suffered. I rip the paintings off the wall and I laugh as she runs to try and find a safe space to scream but soon they are all gone and I’ve saved the chipped yellow paint but then I hear click click click and I can’t see her, but I turn and I catch her face in the window and I think she is outside but it is dark and I have seen a reflection. I whip around to catch her behind me but she is not there.

Still the scream surrounds me and it rages on through my ears like a wave washing over me, plugging every orifice and I choke on the sound and I tear at my hair and I scream. If she is in here then I should escape and— look!— the window has the perfect perch from which to jump and then the door’s lock clicks and the click bounces in my head and the door opens and he steps through it but it is too late for him because I have found my freedom as I push open the window and jump

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“Windows to the Soul,” Sabrina Blandon

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in lieu of an original, i’d like to imitate an ode to “in lieu of a poem, i’d like to say” by danez smith Dickinson-Frevola unwrapping clementines like precious gifts & her nasally laugh & the thyme braided into our yard & smoke clinging to your clothes & love drunk under the solstice stars with her hand in mine & asking g-d if i’m doing this right & the stubborn smell of weed lingering on my fingers & the purple splotches gracing my soft hips & stomping thick-soled shoes running wild in the streets & swallowing the sun whole & tomorrows made impossible by the dull ache of the sole & opening your eyes to a new year & our late night kitchen dancing & the way she calls a name that isn’t mine & her soft panting breaths & corey’s coming lilting from the stereo & i’m a fool & you you you always you & wrinkled clothes in the hamper & remembering & kissing the sky & the miracle of seeing you a world away & laika the space dog in her ship alone & perpetually cold feet & notes left behind & sleeping on your shoulder on the train & at the end of story i begin again

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“Last Touch,” Lexi Lowe

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“in the forest,” Dickinson-Frevola

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wax Andrew Cardell little fires dance as if controlled by their mother as if they exist for their mother as she cannot dance herself they must live out her dream wax drips and spills flames grow high wax flows down to the floor creating a gelatinous film wax flows higher it pours out of the house just out the front door windows are shut tight i come home to see the destruction i lay down in the wax sink to the bottom i am encased completely a smile splayed across my face mother’s dream has been fulfilled

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“Game Over,” Sabrina Blandon

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Eye Movement Desensitization and Reprocessing Julianna Grossman The closest I got to my soul was in therapy.

Across from me, the rhythm of her hand, the slow back-and-forth of a raised index finger ripped my chest wide and gaping and lulled me gently forward.

I peeked inside and cried.

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You and I Debra Aspromonti Sometimes I imagine seeing you again You, the brand of magic I never knew existed Only you can make people disappear Only you can make music white noise A mutual friend asks if I have met you yet Oh, just a couple hundred times You’d think we would’ve gotten it right by now We’re dancing in a soap bubble Attending the opera underwater You and I An unfinished song, a broken rhyme I loved you too much when we were young so now I don’t know what I have left to give Nobody loves harder than at 16, I’m convinced You have watched me fly around the world searching for something that felt like home Because you couldn’t be my safety And I have watched as you looped a string of bad decisions around your neck like a lanyard Because I couldn’t be your good one What I feel won’t change because it’s not a love recognized In Instagram posts and good morning texts Because it’s not flowers and coffee Or the marrying type My feelings will stay constant Even when I get to navigate the cliché millennial relationship With the flowers and coffee which aren’t from you When I walk down the aisle to a man who loves my laugh but doesn’t get the joke And sometimes I’ll imagine seeing you again

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Fig&Wasp Alicia Renda And tomorrow shall be the same as yesterday, I say, and you seem baffled by my certainty.

As if tomorrow will not bring the wasp wriggling its way into my capillaries, crawling its way into a hospital bed.

A place to die, a place to fertilize.

And if it does not, if the wasp finds itself astray in someone else’s graveyard, I will shrivel in starvation.

My faith seems foreign to you, my reliant alien.

But I remember yesterday as the wasp made its way to the flowers in my bowels where its eggs mingled with viscous villi and I came to know what it is to be needed in the same way that I need.

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“creation,” Dickinson-Frevola

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On Behalf of the Overwhelmed Protagonist Roddyna B. Saint-Paul she sprints across asphalt barefoot the blacktop burns already scarred seared soles Sun must be angry again— why else does he hurl flaming glares? she leaves behind footprints of skin and sweat but he stalks her scent fragrance of fear ripe with terror and piss what will she do? where will she go? too much uncertainty, too much pain! close the book, close the book! let her breathe, let her recover she’s slipping shit!

SLAM IT SHUT!

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DISCLAIMER Font exclusively features the work of Hofstra University students.

Each staff member reviewed and ranked submissions blindly.

Font Literary and Arts Magazine, Volume 17, Fall 2021. Hofstra University. Copyright 2021 Font Literary and Art. All artwork and literature contained in this publication are copyright 2021 to their respective creators. The ideas and opinions expressed within belong to the respective authors and artists and do not necessarily reflect those of the editors, Hofstra University administrators, or the Hofstra community. Any similarities to persons living or dead are purely coincidental. None of the contents of this publication may be reprinted without the permission of the individual authors or artists.

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A PRODUCTION OF THE HOFSTRA ENGLISH SOCIETY