Font Literary and Arts Magazine Spring 2021

LITERARY AND ARTS MAGAZINE Volume 16 Spring 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: “flaming sun,” Jessica Mannhaupt

STAFF MANAGING EDITOR

EDITOR-IN-CHIEF

DESIGN EDITOR

Alyssa Minkoff

Manasvi Vietla

Bridey Morris

HEAD COPY EDITOR

ASSOCIATE DESIGN EDITORS

Kira Kusakavitch

Annie Kellogg Sam Whitman

COPY EDITORS Lauren Ballinger

Andrew Cardell

DickinsonFrevola

Julianna Grossman

Aissatou Ndiour

GENERAL STAFF Debbie Aspromonti Lex Besecker Sabrina Blandon Madison Donnelly Emily Ewing Cecilia Gray

Jessica Hansen Tal Heyman Georgelyne Jean-Pierre Isabelle Jensen Sabrina Josephson T Kosek

Jessica Mannhaupt Ambrose Rajendran Roddyna B. Saint-Paul Lauren Sager Caitlyn “Cat” Snell Haley Whitworth

SPECIAL THANKS Karyn Valerius Stan Cherian Erik Brogger Hofstra University English Department

LETTER FROM THE EDITOR-IN-CHIEF Dear reader, It’s been a long and trying year for all of us. These past 402 days have been full of many different words. We’ve seen assurances and platitudes, everything from “in these unprecedented times” to “we’re a quaranteam.” Despite all these messages of togetherness, the sheer nature of this pandemic has made it very easy to feel like you’re alone, with no one who understands what it is you’re going through.

I think this magazine proves just the opposite. We’re all connected through the shared human experience of writing—of reaching a hand across space and time, saying “Can you hear me? I’m here. I feel you.” We have our friends and families, who we can lean on if need be, and personally, I like to think of Hofstra English Society as both. Everyone here, and even more so Hofstra as a whole, has a story worth telling, and they have delivered in this semester’s issue of Font.

What better way to commiserate together than with our own words?

I’d like to thank every submitter for sharing their work with us—your words keep Font alive and thriving. To the staff, thank you for all your invaluable contributions to this magazine; your efforts are greatly appreciated. To my editorial board, I adore you all. Thank you so much for all your hard work and dedication—Font wouldn’t exist without you. And finally, thank you, reader, for picking up our magazine. Your support means the world to us. We hope you continue to support Font in the future.

This pandemic has been a deeply traumatic event for all of us, and to pretend otherwise is a disservice. Although things are looking up, I feel it is worth noting that there is no “returning” to pre-pandemic life—it has made a deep and lasting impact in our collective psyche. We are in uncharted waters, and now we must decide where to go from here.

I’ve made the decision to go forward. Enjoy your copy of Font and join me.

Manasvi Vietla Editor-in-Chief, Font

CONTENTS

Uncharted Waters Nadja's Face what kind of emo bullshit Queen at Eighteen lightbulb Dishwasher The Pomegranates Under the Ground Will Blossom unfinished Those who judge never knew pluck Splinter Just Yesterday chemolithotroph beneath the surface The Eternal Battle the cardinal rule inconvenience/burden collarbones is this lesbianism return Paradox matthew street Little Bluejay, Little Beauty bodyodyodyody Mother Ocean lonely swan dreamscape.

6 7 8 9 9 10 11

Jolee Sullivan Audra Nemirow Dickinson-Frevola Debbie Aspromonti Andrew Cardell Isabelle Jensen Lex Besecker

12 13 13 14 15 16 16 17 18 19 20 20 21 22 23 23 24 25 25 26

Dickinson-Frevola Sabrina Blandon Andrew Cardell Alicia C. Renda Jolee Sullivan Dickinson-Frevola Debbie Aspromonti Jessica Mannhaupt R. Carlin T Kosek Lex Besecker Dickinson-Frevola Andrew Cardell Isabelle Jensen R. Carlin Alicia C. Renda Dickinson-Frevola Lex Besecker Jessica Mannhaupt Manasvi Vietla

Roddyna B. Saint-Paul Debbie Aspromonti Roddyna B. Saint-Paul Julianna Grossman T Kosek Gabby Luftschein Alicia C. Renda Sabrina Blandon Haley Whitworth Isabelle Jensen TD T Kosek Roddyna B. Saint-Paul Debbie Aspromonti Andrew Cardell

27 28 29 30 30 31 33 33 34 35 36 36 37 39 40

anonymous Isabelle Jensen Senator Rocco A. Distefano Jolee Sullivan Alicia C. Renda Debbie Aspromonti Jolee Sullivan Emma Serizy Isabelle Jensen T Kosek Lauren Ballinger

40 41 42 43 43 44 45 46 47 48 49

The Disillusioned Captive Bloom Drained Nobody Wants to Hear About It Deserved She Must Be Loved To Fall in Love with Yellow Eyes glazed over the World I saw To the Right-Handed Kitchen Tools Made of Clay gender? i barely know her Hands A Series of Thirds Welcome two hunks of flesh on the posterior face of my body two thin mints and a bag of poker chips When you love someone Instructions on How to Become Valedictorian The Blinds When Winter Ends Phoenix Happy Belated Crying is an Art Trust I don't know when I first learned of Vietnam Secrets

CONTENTS

UNCHARTED WATERS Jolee Sullivan There’s topography in the bathwater, Sudsy swirls purple-mountains majesty?

Maps change slowly but now there’s tragedy, Restless toes cause avalanches and slaughter.

There’s power in the soles of a pilgrim’s daughter, And she sinks low in the warm reality: The dirt off her skin fills the shining sea.

The water gets colder, never hotter.

A volcano erupting, she rises up, Lets the landscape change, the water still.

Shivers as rivers fall from her fingers And touches those stains that she scrubbed.

The drain croaks, chokes on free will.

The dirt dissolved, but the power lingers.

6 FONT MAGAZINE

NADJA’S FACE Audra Nemirow

Having failed at everything that required effort, Nadja has decided that she will live off her looks alone, like an actress in a silent movie.

It would be easy, Nadja thought, since on the rare days she leaves her home, everyone’s eyes are always on her. And even when the eyes of others are closed or averted, she has always imagined that, like the phantom of a lamp that has just been shut off, her beauty burns irrevocably onto their retinas.

This girl does not actually know what it means to see clearly, to even see her own face. Since she was a child, her eyesight has been painfully out-of-focus, and her parents worried that glasses would spoil her looks. Now that she is grown up and both of her parents are dead, she could very well purchase glasses or even contacts. But she does not want to spend her inheritance on practical things.

Instead, she spends it on fur coats and velvet cushions; on tactile sensations that send shivers down her spine. Nadja is remarkably sensuous in that way. She would rather live in a blur of rich purples, in a lovely rush of feeling, than in a hall of mirrors, of sharp, glassy angles.

Behind that face, believe it or not, there is a brain that cannot fathom any fact that does not contribute to its immediate pleasure. And so, Nadja will never be able to fathom the truth about her face: that it is, in fact, crooked, and unremarkably so. Ugliness, after all, requires an extraordinary originality of distortion, a dissonant symphony of features, and Nadja’s face is not memorable enough to be ugly. Her face is a haze to those she encounters. It is fuzzy, out of focus, like a shot in a badly made film.

Nobody really knows what she looks like, not Nadja, not even I know. You may chalk this up to a lack of imagination on my part, but all I can seem to make out is that vague crookedness, which I have already described. Every once in a while, a black eye pokes between the patches of fog, but that’s all I can tell you.

Lucky for Nadja, she will never know how inconsequential her face really is.

In her poor, warped mind, she has decided that it is more dignified to keep her beauty to herself. And so today, she lounges about her apartment, which, like a jewelry box, is lined with velvet. She has not left her home since she made this decision; she is still there today, guarding her face from the world as though her peculiar combination of a nose, two eyes, lips, and lashes composes some rare and refined diamond.

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“what kind of emo bullshit,” Dickinson-Frevola

8 FONT MAGAZINE

QUEEN AT EIGHTEEN

Debbie Aspromonti

She raps her scepter on the floor Commanding silence in the room.

A diadem of rubies resting on her brow, It rises As she gazes at her subject.

She doesn’t have time for nonsense And she can snuff out fires if she must She runs this kingdom by her solitary self A master of trade routes, currency, foreign affairs, and keeping the people satisfied But her subject is complicating matters “You’re saying,” she clarifies, “that you want me to throw a ball? For what reason?”

The peasant smiles, shifting his gaze to the floor “No reason, Your Highness. No reason at all.”

LIGHTBULB

Andrew Cardell

her soft silky form dangerously delicate inside a golden cage no need for escape she remained still thunder rolled and clapped around her as if it were a flood she would never dip below the surface her reach splashed further into obscurity and she realized she would soon be alone as the other forms flickered out she knew oblivion was escape and so she settled inside her atmosphere

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DISHWASHER Isabelle Jensen

I watch the dishes pile up Precariously stacked Every one means another minute I will stand at that sink As I scrub the plate, my brain searches for scraps It will find the thoughts that need to be picked off The ones that I had been avoiding It finds a bowl full of regret It finds a glass half full of worry It always forgets about the newly cleaned plates The ones I just wiped down that shine with self-improvement All day I stare at that sink Wet food and old water glasses become ghosts of the future Haunting me with what will come When I am too tired to put it off any longer I will go to them Finally, time to clean But my anxiety has other plans It knows I can multitask It informs me that just like those forks, soaking will do me good If I sit in my worry long enough, these problems will disintegrate As I scrub, my emotions flood my brain They fill me with frustration and sadness The sponge is dying to know why I am shaking as I pick it up It is so hard to be kind to myself when doing this chore It makes me want to lie on the kitchen tiles until I am sane again However, I keep scrubbing The dishes shine and we both know I will see them again Every day it is a small victory But it is a victory worth the suds and sacrifice.

10 FONT MAGAZINE

THE POMEGRANATES UNDER THE GROUND WILL BLOSSOM

Lex Besecker

I think Persephone would write a lot of poetry during the summer. After a long, glorious day of being elbow-deep in rich, damp earth, she would conjure poems in her mind as she bathed in the clear stream at night, moonlight filtering through the trees. And then when she’d go home—her above-ground home—for the night, she’d sit with her leather-bound journal that he gave her, and spill her heart’s contents onto the crisp white paper. Her thoughts would be of her dark lover in her below-ground home as he waits for his queen’s return.

I think Hades would spend his free time in the gardens she had created, cultivating the pomegranate trees that grow from the harsh, dark soil. They’re the only thing to grow in the Underworld, after all. His thoughts would never stray from her, and he would constantly wonder what she was doing at that moment.

And then at night—if you could really call it that—he would sit in his chair by an open window with a drink of ambrosia in hand and wish his beloved was curled up in his lap, reading poetry from a worn page.

I think that when the spring equinox inches closer day by day, the goddess of spring feels her heart race a little bit faster at the thought of her dark lord. Down below, the ruler of the Underworld paces back and forth, barking orders for things to be just right for his queen. And then the day comes, and he meets her at the banks of Styx as Charon carefully transports the queen to her home for the next six months. Her king greets his queen with a warm embrace, chaste kiss, and six ruby red pomegranate seeds.

I think they’d spend the first few days timid, unsure. No matter how many years go by, the first few days together again are fragile, filled with soft looks and gentle touches. That is until one (it’s normally her) kisses the other and they are soon lost in passions between the sheets, making up for lost time. (Though try as they might, they feel like they never can). At dinner, she drips with diamonds and emeralds and opals, a sight that he drinks in, and commits to memory for the days when he will be lonely. In the pomegranate groves, he laughs when he is ankledeep in dirt, his hair unruly from helping. Her heart aches for when she will be lonely again above ground, and she tucks these moments away for those long days in the sun. But they both brush those thoughts aside: for now, they are content, happy.

SPRING 2021 11

And I think that when the autumnal equinox draws nearer, they both become a little more desperate. The king neglects his soul-judging duties, and the queen her gardening. They dream of breaking free from this dreaded cycle, but what’s another six months when they have forever? And when the day comes for Persephone to step onto Charon’s shallow boat, she’s given another six ruby seeds, fresh from a newly broken pomegranate. Hades kisses her, once, twice, thrice, before helping her onto the boat and watching her sail away. They both already feel the ache of loneliness in their chests.

"unfinished," Dickinson-Frevola

12 FONT MAGAZINE

THOSE WHO JUDGE NEVER KNEW

Sabrina Blandon

Those who judge never knew They deliver Death upon their tongue; Such words can cut the soul, Leaving eternal bandages.

Bandaged soul would be all that I am At this still moment in time; Time would allow me to fade From the hour of judgment.

Making me disappear from the world To leave my mortal body upon the chair; Death would come in his carriage Pulled by white horses.

He would heal my eternal bandages And make me new.

PLUCK

Andrew Cardell a raven shatters the glass to make its appearance once again to pluck my hope away i offer it up as a sacrifice the raven flies out between the shards of glass it has retrieved its prize i don’t believe it is satisfied just yet realism is a burden as a bird pecking at my small intestine i willingly accept it hope is dangerous as a bird with a ravenous appetite and i am glad it has been taken from me

SPRING 2021 13

SPLINTER

Alicia C. Renda Those were old summers, lake edges languidly lapping at my toes dangling over the edge of a dock, worn away under the pitterpatter of siblings running circles of barefoot vitality, feeling the transition from crisp grass and worm wet fertilized soil to this wood which carries us over water. My own, curious gaze upon the dark lacquered body seamlessly teaming with calm.

I am enraptured by how much life there must be and cannot be seen.

The wood stops creaking, a moment of silence before it is splintered by cries and I am torn from my wondering to attend to the piece of wood that has broken away and embedded itself into the still un-calloused flesh of your underfoot.

And I, the newly anointed surgeon, tug.

Pulling with it a new cry which rallies from the trees the life which had been hidden there.

Calling also to mother who runs from the house with a protective need, only to laugh as you blubber your way through an explanation.

Both of your shoulders roll though each with different emotions, life brought to the surface.

14 FONT MAGAZINE

JUST YESTERDAY Jolee Sullivan

I got an abortion yesterday—you Want me to say it again?

I got an abortion yesterday, And I’m doing alright, and What that means is I’m not thinking about it.

I’m not thinking about it, the blood, or The abortion I got yesterday.

Yesterday, I woke up, Thirsty and hungry and not knowing When I’d be allowed a sip of water, Or a comfortable sleep in my bed.

Yesterday, I did not let myself feel Fear.

Or pain, like the other girls did, I did not let myself scream or cry like The other girls did, Yesterday.

Today, I drink water and spend more time Scouring my mind For the things that I feel, so The lines—so that I Can say precisely The right thing here, Because you can’t just get an abortion And write a shitty poem about it— God forbid.

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CHEMOLITHOTROPH

Dickinson-Frevola

i hate the feeling of dampness like when you step in water when you’re wearing socks, a discomfort that manages to wedge itself into the crevices of your being and burrow deep, some long lost remnant of a time before we’d grown legs and arms and pulled ourselves onto shore, only to huddle around fires and wrap ourselves in layers and curse the changing sky for its incessant coldness, for the damp that makes its way into your skin, for the way our teeth scrape and our bones ache with the hardness of life on land as we tirelessly search for softness and warmth. i think of a time when we were ocean dwellers in the toxic plumes of underwater volcanoes, and how i would like to be microscopic bacteria swarming in the hot jets of mother earth’s underbelly with you, the juxtaposition of the immense heat of those alien tubes and the barren waste and chill of whale falls, where creatures feed in depths where there is no sun. i would like to burrow deep in those depths, return to a womb of stillness and dark, like a new beginning, or a finite end of pitch-black where only the bioluminescence of beautiful ugliness echoes the existence of light and warmth.

“beneath the surface,” Debbie Aspromonti

16 FONT MAGAZINE

THE ETERNAL BATTLE

Jessica Mannhaupt

Long ago, a boy lived in his gloomy, yet quaint duplex home. He lived in his own dreadful world not knowing the chaos that lived beyond the wall, separating him from another ill-fated life. In the complex attached to his lived Achilles, a famous yet doomed warrior. There had been rumors through the neighborhood of the chaotic insanity that the son of the sea goddess instituted each day. The boy would hear screams each night of various battle cries, igniting pain in the man’s voice.

Gods, how crazy is this man? Thought the boy—he was fearful of the man.

From time to time, he would hear names spew out of Achilles’ mouth through the thin walls of the attached homes, the most prominent being “Patroclus.”

One day, the boy peered out his window to cure the curiosity spurred by the commotion going on in the joint yard. On the other side of his fence, the boy saw Achilles frantically flaunting himself about the yard. It almost seemed as if he were acting out intricately specific battle scenes. His long hair full of sweat, clothes disheveled, and haunting facial expressions all pointed to pent up trauma from a past life. This sparked much curiosity in the boy, as he wondered about the horrific events that led to the infamous man’s sorrow and insanity.

Days passed and the boy decided to ease his torment by going on a stroll through the wretched streets. As he walked through his home’s threshold and out to the gloomy underworld, he noticed to his left Achilles sitting on his stoop.

The famous warrior was void of emotion; his head was shaved to the bone. This surprised the boy since he was used to the man’s long, golden locks. In Achilles’ lap seemed to be an ancient helmet made of bronze armor.

Normally if the boy saw Achilles in passing, he would stay away in fear. But this time was different. Something in him told him he had to know the sorrowful man’s thoughts. As the boy walked closer, he noticed the old bloodstains that spread across the bronze helmet. The boy thought, had he brought this from a previous life? He wondered if speaking his thoughts out loud would be overstepping.

Unable to tame his curiosity, the boy finally asked, “Is that from your time on Earth?”

Achilles looked startled—as if he was brought out from his spiraling thoughts from the sudden disruption of silence. He looked at the boy wearily, knowing if he answered it would open the pandora’s box that was his life on Earth. Why did the boy care? He couldn’t possibly understand…or maybe he could as it seemed that they both ended up down here.

Again, the boy broke the silence, separating Achilles from his thoughts. “You don’t have to answer. Just thought it might ease our torment to get to know each other’s personal hell.”

SPRING 2021 17

The words surprised Achilles. He thought everyone in the underworld knew the famous life he lived on Earth. He finally decided to speak and gestured to the ancient armor in his lap. “This once belonged to me, and then was given to a soul much greater than mine. He was killed in this armor because of me. It is the only remnant I have left of his pure soul.”

The boy wondered who this person could be and then thought back to the names Achilles screamed out at night in complete agony. “Patroclus…” the boy thought out loud.

Achilles’ eyes were distant as he peered at the red sky. His answer was a slight nod, almost unnoticed by the boy, but it was confirmation of his preconceived notion. The boy thought he saw a tear roll down Achilles’ cheek. Achilles’ thoughts wandered as he hesitated to speak again. He turned to look at the boy, eyes piercing through the equally damned soul. His voice was almost a whisper.

“I wish more than anything that I chose a life of great mundanity if it meant I could look into his eyes just one more time.” There was great anguish in his voice as it started to crack toward the end of his confession. The boy sat next to Achilles on his stoop as they both looked out to the flaming sky of the underworld.

THE CARDINAL RULE R. Carlin

a single bird flies above the night sky and something rattles metallically. beneath my feet the crooked, cracked yellow line blinks at a solitary swooping bird while i sing softly into a brittle wind

18 FONT MAGAZINE

INCONVENIENCE/BURDEN T Kosek

You may not know what it feels like to be a burden An inconvenience Feel as though everything you do Say Feel Is wrong As though you need to reply “thank you” “Sorry” “No worries if you can’t” To anything that MIGHT be a minor inconvenience to someone else But it is exhausting It’s beyond tiptoeing around subjects It’s beyond walking on eggshells It’s being too afraid to ask for a glass of water at your dad’s house It’s bottling everything up Being afraid to rely on anyone beyond yourself It’s a constant, draining dread That follows you like a shadow.

SPRING 2021 19

COLLARBONES

Lex Besecker

she said she always loved my collarbones, that they made me look dainty in her eyes. she said she always wanted to stack quarters in them, like I am something to be adored and adorned. when we’d lie in the sheets at night, she’d trace my collarbones with her lips before going down down down to my breasts and then my stomach and then between my thighs and then she’d kiss my lips. she said her hands are too dirty to touch me, and in repentance, she wants to give me the world, but when will she learn that I only need her?

“is this lesbianism,” Dickinson-Frevola

20 FONT MAGAZINE

RETURN

Andrew Cardell you found me on the side of the road threw me in your trunk a discarded rag doll you brought me to your bathroom the water ran dark with my filth you scrubbed and picked at my flesh until i reflected your image back to you you dressed me in what you wanted as if you had planned to before seeing me on that expanse of asphalt you taught me how to eat in small bites never too much to make my cheeks bulge that was only for the nighttime you asked for control but you had to give me direction which was more than you wanted you wanted an inherent knowledge you reached inside me to the deepest tissue and pulled it out resistance had always been foreign to me you swallowed it in one bite you couldn’t digest it intestines weren’t meant to process that much i was too much i reached inside fished out what was mine swallowed it myself you collapsed to the floor i no longer reflect you i emanate my own light

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PARADOX

Isabelle Jensen I find myself a paradox Color-coded but somehow out of order Burnt out but still lit Sad but smiling I went back in time and created myself Gave myself a little more gusto Granted the world a little more power Stopped time only to slow myself down I changed the perspective Made time my bitch Found strength and weakness in the same breakfast buffet Wondered when this type of flexibility would make me happy I searched for truth And all I got were more questions I found some hardship on my nightstand I found kindness in the most clouded spaces I found more of myself Not in the ways I expected Not in the form I expected What I did not know I needed I forgot who I wanted to be I stopped trying to outrun the anomalies I did not look back at past wishes I did not ask what she would have wanted I am a paradox It is better this way Sensible is boring I am the oxymoron that makes you realize what you’ve been missing

22 FONT MAGAZINE

MATTHEW STREET

R. Carlin

cars captive to an inconsiderate industrial schedule swerve around me on my timeless bicycle, dodging curbs and potholes in a reckless, route-less manner, as uprooted as the trees that line Matthew Street. wherever they are headed, they force themselves to rush with eyes squinted into the afternoon winter sunlight, barely missing me beyond their windshields. and then i realize my life is worth far less than their time.

LITTLE BLUEJAY, LITTLE BEAUTY

Alicia C. Renda

Upon flimsy iron points a blue jay sits, chirping an airborne chantey with abandon.

Below your blue-backed brethren toil, diligent workers hopping among wrappers and mixing with the sludge of leaves and mud.

Little blue jay, little beauty you sing such a song from the muck, could you teach me?

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“bodyodyodyody,” Dickinson-Frevola

24 FONT MAGAZINE

MOTHER OCEAN

Lex Besecker

The sun blazes down, turning my shoulders into a lobster red.

The blue-green-gray water is cold—but not too cold—against my body.

Seaweed scratches against the tops of my thighs, making me itch.

I gaze at my friends through my sunglasses, watching them play in the water; And while I know I should revel in the sweet carefreeness of the day, I cannot help but look out to the waters that stretch ahead of me.

My head rolls back as I close my eyes, feeling the water against my heated skin.

There is splashing and shrieking and laughing and shouting as I sway with the waves.

The water calls to me: it beckons to me.

No, not it. She. She, Mother Ocean, coaxes me.

I breathe the sea salt air, letting the wind fill my lungs as thoughts swirl through my mind.

What if I allowed myself to be swept out to sea? To let Mother Ocean carry me away: far, far away from this life?

To become one with nature and live forever in a watery grave, where the unbeknownst things will keep my soul company.

And it is not until I am splashed, waking me from my reverie, that I shake the thoughts away.

Mother Ocean can have me another time.

“lonely swan,” Jessica Mannhaupt

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DREAMSCAPE.

Manasvi Vietla

January 20th, 2020, 4:15 p.m: “We will now begin stage 2 of your hypnosis treatment. Close your eyes. You are very tired. What do you see?”

January 29th, 2020, 10:23 a.m: “Okay, here’s your refill on the Ambien, and here’s your new prescription for Lunesta. That should be everything, and don’t forget to take it easy on the medication! This is some pretty strong stuff…I have to ask, are you sure your doctor said all of this was okay? I know we got the prescription, but—what?…Oh. Oh, yes, of course, I apologize. Have a nice day!”

February 6th, 2020, 9:49 p.m: “…Hi, it’s me. I don’t know if you’re going to see this message, but I thought I’d call just to check in. It’s been a while since we’ve talked...um, Mom told me that you’ve been having trouble going to bed. I can bring over some lavender tea, if that helps. Mom said it works...call me when you see this, I guess. Everyone’s doing well at home, they just miss you...it’s been over a month. I don’t understand why you won’t just…Forget it. Bye.” March 18th, 2020, 2:22 p.m: “You again? Man, you must really like our coffee, huh? I see you in here all the time, and that’s all you get! It’s like it’s the only thing you’ve been eating!”

May 12th, 2020, 1:20 a.m: “So, you couldn’t even call for my birthday?! I know you’ve been going through some shit, but this is unacceptable. Are you even awake at all anymore? Mom thinks you’re on your deathbed, you know. She’s freaking out. You’re so pathetic.

Bye!” July 8th, 2020, 7:12 p.m: “Hello, this is Hempstead Family Practice calling for XXXXXXX XXXXXX. You have missed two essential follow-up appointments regarding your new medication. Please call us back to re-schedule your appointment as soon as possible. Goodbye.”

August 16th, 2020, 2:03 a.m: “This is 911. What’s your emergency?…What? Ma’am, ma’am, you’re going to have to speak more clearly, I can’t understand you if you’re mumbling. Ma’am?

Ma’am, I’m sorry, could you repeat that? Ma’am? Ma’am!”

26 FONT MAGAZINE

THE DISILLUSIONED CAPTIVE

Roddyna B. Saint-Paul

My love, what have you seen that has startled you so?

You’ve dropped our vase—beware of the crushed petals and brackish water and shards of rose-colored glass pooling at your bare feet.

No! Do not mourn the flowers for they had perished long before they fell.

I saw no tears when you snapped the stems, so cease your weeping and get off your knees.

Stand, let me look at you!

Disregard my savage tone, for worry alone plagues me.

Love, your eyes are hollow, the scarlet has fled your cheeks; what haunts you—thieves you from me?

This will not do at all—get up!

Save for my presence, you are alone!

What unrelenting nightmare dares to attack while your eyes are open?

What furtive monster has seized you while the sun still burns and your shadow still serves as witness?

Please, my love, stop weeping!

For the sound is wretched, and more debilitating than any moan, hiss, or shriek of hatred that any devil could utter.

Cease pointing in my direction, for I swear to you that naught lies behind me but an empty chamber.

Direct me to the harpy that has gouged out your mind, and I will wrest her talons from your back and let you watch as I demolish the one who dares to drag you away while I stand here, your unyielding protector.

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For under my watch, you are deathless: Free from possession and exempt from the insipid laws of God and the natural order.

For, truly, my love, I do not easily relinquish that which belongs to me.

“Bloom,” Debbie Aspromonti

28 FONT MAGAZINE

DRAINED

Roddyna B. Saint-Paul siphon the vivid dreams, ideas, and regrets quickly! while she sleeps! even before they begin to manifest spill her vibrant words, aspirations, and attitudes onto the lined paper let them trickle completely from the tubes (ink-stained fingertips) and splash and sprint away to lay claim to the biggest room sit back on your haunches to watch the thrilling explosions as a rainbow of emotions, theories, and truths explore their novel home prepared to be viewed by one and all and consumed by all but one the tubes are efficient and soon the ink runs dry so travel up there use your hands and feet to help you climb check to see if she is vacant did we get it all?

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NOBODY WANTS TO HEAR ABOUT IT Julianna Grossman

I am empty, I am still.

I allow sloth to chain my stiff limbs to the mattress.

Pressing the lips of a bottle to the molting skin of my lips, Water forces itself past swollen gums and rotting teeth.

Layers of soft plaque and sticky film taint its pure taste.

Flakes of white tumble from my hair, Decorating the sheets greyed by my sweat, Until the oil-slick tangles shackle my head to the pillows.

My body itches. Fingers rake themselves along my skin.

Thick slabs of filth gather under overgrown nails, Binding the skin of my fingertips to the underbelly of their white crescents.

Overgrown pubic hair chokes my vulva, Armpit hair curls down the length of my arm, Leg hair squeezes past sheets of dead skin.

The heaviness of it all drives me deeper into apathy.

My decomposing body sinks further below vitality.

But nobody wants to hear about it, Because it’s gross.

“Deserved,” T Kosek

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SHE MUST BE LOVED

Gabby Luftschein

The blacktop was rough beneath my bare feet. I had forgotten sneakers that day, which earned me a scolding from my gym teacher, but the real downfall was the way my soles were now getting torn up while I jumped rope. Amanda was holding one end of the rope, but for the life of me, I couldn’t tell you who was holding the other. All I remember now is her laughing face passing through every turn of the cord that tethered me to her. Looking back, it feels like more of a taunting laugh than a joyful one.

I don’t know how Amanda and I became friends. It was one of those things that just were, and you accepted it as such. Perhaps it was our sitting next to each other on the way home from our very first day of kindergarten, or maybe the time she saved me from the ant that was crawling on my leg (a very real threat when it happened), but maybe friendship isn’t something that happens in one instant.

I was a quiet girl, she was a quiet girl; we talked mostly with our eyes, sending signals across space and time into our own little universe.

There was this one time Amanda got sent home early from school because she was sick. We must have been in the third grade at the time. She was nauseous; I knew it just from the look she was giving me far before she shot her hand up and cried out that she had to go to the nurse. Talking with our eyes was customary.

That day, it wasn’t Amanda’s eyes sending signals, but her smile. The way she had been smiling at me during recess…I couldn’t get it out of my mind. This wasn’t necessarily new. It had been clear to me for some time that I thought about Amanda more than most friends think about each other, differently than most friends think about each other. Possibly the first time I realized this was when a boy from the grade above us, Michael, asked her to go to the dance with him. I couldn’t stop picturing them, swaying together, tuning everyone else out, tuning me out.

It wasn’t the “dwelling on small actions of Amanda’s” that was different, but more so the actions being dwelled on. The smile she had given me was one I had never seen from her before. Not with me, not with Michael, not ever. It had a different quality to it, one that set my heart aflame.

When we got on the bus, we took our usual seat at the back. Being that we were eighth graders at the top of the middle-school food chain, we got first pick.

That seat was our sanctuary from the rest of the world—we were always the last stop, and sitting there alone together felt as if time was simultaneously passing at record-speed yet never-ending all at once. Amanda told me she had French homework she needed to do on the ride home.

“But I have so much to tell you about from last weekend,” I whined. I didn’t really, but our quiet chat times together were the highlight of my day.

“If you wanna speak…” she started, “Parle en français.” I rolled my eyes, but my heart fluttered a bit in my chest hearing her switch tongues.

SPRING 2021 31

The road was bumpy beneath us as Amanda’s pen danced across her paper, every so often whispering words to herself in French. I loved French; I was a year ahead of her in it and something about hearing her stumble through simple phrases was adorable in the most innocent of ways. At some point during my silent pining, she looked up at me with pleading eyes, and I knew she was asking for help.

“You know,” I said, grabbing the book from her, “French is a romance language.”

“What’s your point?”

“Well, maybe you need a little romance in your life in order to get better at it.” I didn’t know where I was going with that as I said it, but it had already come out of my mouth, and all I could think of was that smile on the playground earlier.

As if she knew. As if she felt the same.

“Hey! I’ve had more romance than you have. Remember Michael?” she taunted, but there it was again: The smile.

By that point, everyone was gone. We were seconds away from home, and all those who remained on the bumpy bus were the bus driver, me and Amanda, and a tension between us that you could cut with a knife. I found myself looking up at her, frozen. And then, before I knew it, my lips were brushing against hers. It was a split-second static shock between us and then she was gone.

I got off the bus after she had run away, my fingers against my lips where hers had been a moment earlier. At home, I paced in my room; the time between our kiss and then was a watercolor painting of greys and browns that I still can’t make out to this day.

That was the last time Amanda and I ever sat in our sanctuary together. We didn’t stop talking with our eyes, or our mouths for that matter. We didn’t stop hanging out, but by the time we graduated high school, Amanda was a distant memory of soft lips and French—a language I had soon after abandoned. I guess friendship doesn’t end in an instant either.

In my freshman year of college, I ran into Amanda at a football game against another school. She introduced me to her girlfriend. Turned out, I hadn’t misinterpreted the signs. She just hadn’t been ready. I couldn’t tell if that made the memory gentler or not. The amount of time I had wasted, wondering what I could have done differently, why I was the way I was…it was painful to think about.

“It all worked out for the best,” she said, pointing to her girlfriend. As if I was just collateral. My feelings, an even exchange for her personal growth.

“I’m happy for you,” I lied. Or maybe it was the truth. Maybe I was happy for Amanda. After all, she was the first girl I loved, and that never truly goes away.

When I returned to my seat, I tried to make eye contact with her from across the aisles, like the old days, but she was louder now; her voice spoke for itself. I don’t know if I’ll ever find my voice like that. If running away is what it takes to get there, then I’m not sure I want to.

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TO FALL IN LOVE WITH YELLOW

Alicia C. Renda

This Godforsaken shade of sunlight, daisy bursting bright, ochre crusted, ill illuminated color which my youth had deemed too headache-inducing, so awfully abhorrent.

You wear it scattered in pieces, socks peeking above your ankle, a checkered heart stitched into your sweater.

You pluck leaves out of the changing season and whisper to me the color of your happiness.

EYES GLAZED OVER THE WORLD I SAW

Sabrina Blandon

Eyes glazed over the World I saw— Hands numb to the room I was in, Feet rooted to the Ground, Waiting…

Ghostly white horses pulled a familiar carriage, I no longer stayed, for He had come Go to Him, my mind thought— He waits for you, my heart responded— Leaving the place that confined me for innumerable years I never once looked back, He held out his hand, and I stepped into the carriage— The carriage held a new friend whose company I would soon enjoy For Her name was Immortality.

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TO THE RIGHT-HANDED KITCHEN TOOLS Haley Whitworth

I hate you You and your inconvenience and close-minded construction I did not pick you up to reevaluate my existence I simply wanted A piece of pie And YET And yet you find it IMPORTANT to only have a serrated edge on the side that is convenient for right-handed people It takes me five times longer to cut this stupid piece of pie Than anyone else Because I spend five minutes tossing the server back and forth Trying to figure out How to use something so simple Yet so complex When picked up with the wrong hand And don’t get me started On that goddamn butter knife That gets pulled out For fancy dinners And family gatherings Insisting on making me feel inferior Because no matter how many times I roll it in my hands It will never quite work for me And despite our fundamental differences The various can openers and I have made peace Because of the too many times My mother has asked me to help with dinner By opening anywhere from two to seven cans And we learned That we had to come to a compromise In short I eventually succumbed to societal standards And learned how to use can openers With my right hand And I am sure There are many many more kitchen utensils That will make me want to kill myself with them But until then I find myself lucky That forks and knives and spoons Are not Exclusively Handed

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MADE OF CLAY

Isabelle Jensen

Maybe I will just sit here in my bed hoping I will get better I will not eat or try to think rationally But maybe if I cry long enough, I will be too tired to be sad I will cry all day until a drought claims me Until my skin cracks from lack of moisture I will look in the mirror and think myself made of clay Too dry to mold Too many air bubbles Cracked from the oven All these things begging to come to the surface All these thoughts forced down in the heat of emotion I want to be molded more stable Molded happy Carve me a smile Brighten my eyes Clean off the tears They are ruining the finish Stain me to be pretty Call me art I wish I existed to please Someone Anyone Even if that person is me Who was I molded for Who wants me like this No one They want me to be stable And I want me to be stable But I am riddled with cracks No one can mold me but myself And my hands are covered in clay

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GENDER? I BARELY KNOW HER

TD

boygirl. creature. the feeling of sun on your back. brother. a ring on each finger. tough guy. breathing in cologne. (not your) daughter. laying in the grass and trying not to fall up into the endless sky. pretty boy. squeezing your hand back. genderfuck. gender. fuck. boyfriend. girl body. my hands on your body. your whines and gasps when i’m between your thighs. dyke. running your hand over buzzed hair. my old knife. the ragged and raw breathing. little girl. my good boots. partner. you hold my hand on injection days. nonbinary. your breath hot on my neck making my back arch. red-rimmed eyes. the rise in your chest when you see a shooting star. the feeling of the end. bitch. an axe to grind. handsome. hot summer nights. a hand on your throat. (once a) girl. cunt. dangling earrings. butch. finally being able to breathe again. i hold myself in my arms and i let myself be known.

“Hands,” T Kosek

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A SERIES OF THIRDS

Roddyna B. Saint-Paul

The merciless August sun glared down at anyone who dared to step outside.

Across from where Anaïs’ father had parked, an older woman on a porch fanned herself with a paper plate. A TruFate Landscaping van was parked down the road to her left. Two men rested against it, wordlessly picking off blades of grass stuck to their skin and gulping water from the gallon they passed back and forth.

Jumping out of her father’s truck, Anaïs prayed this would be their last delivery of the day. The humidity was suffocating, and she felt as if she was moving through glue. She stopped when she found her father frozen just past the gate that led to the backyard.

“What’s up, Papa? Is the table not where you left it?” She tried to peer past him, but he whipped around and grabbed her arm. “What’s wrong?” she asked.

“I’m going first.” His eyes were wide. “You stay behind me. Don’t touch anything.”

Anaïs pried his hand from her arm. In this heat, any contact was unbearable.

“Why? Isn’t this just a regular pick up?”

“The people who ordered the table…they needed it for a voodoo ceremony.”

“What do you mean? What ceremony?”

He sighed. “Believers hold an annual ceremony to celebrate the spirits and present offerings. Without a spirit’s blessing, they must endure a year of death and pain.”

“That is so cool!”

“No, chérie, not cool. This is dangerous, understand?” he asked.

Anaïs nodded distractedly, eager to encounter the mystical side of her Haitian heritage. She rose on the balls of her feet to get a better look at the backyard.

“Anaïs!” He gripped her chin, eyes flashing. “I’m serious. Do not question anything. Do not touch anything. Do not even look at anything.”

“Okay, fine! God, Papa.” She pushed past him and stopped short, gaping at what her parents, devout Catholics, had refused to associate with.

The backyard was in disarray, empty liquor bottles strewn about and chunks of fried pork scattered around the neglected grass. The heat rendered the stench of alcohol and meat insufferable. Presiding over the mess was an ornate shrine that housed a statue of a woman holding a baby. Meticulously painted, it seemed out of place amongst the chaos. The woman’s robes were a deep blue, her eyes were stained an eerie vermillion, and though Anaïs certainly didn’t believe in any of this mumbo jumbo, she couldn’t ignore the goosebumps forming on her arms.

She dropped her gaze to the foot of the statue and spotted hundred-dollar bills mixed in with the flowers and food.

“Holy crap. What is all of this?” she asked.

“Offerings. Each spirit prefers something specific.”

“So, this one wanted alcohol, fried pork, money, and flowers?”

“Wouldn’t you?” he asked, cracking a smile.

SPRING 2021 37

“I guess so.” She gingerly followed her father to the banquet table that was propped against a shed. “But this is such a waste of food. Do they at least drink the liquor?”

“Not all of it. If the ceremony is done correctly, the spirit possesses someone.

That person becomes the physical form of the spirit for the night and is given gifts and some alcohol. Here.” He threw her a thick towel. “You grab the bottom of the table with this. I’ll take the other side. Do not touch it with your hands.”

Anaïs did as she was told. “What happens to the rest of the money?”

“If people know about it, they come and steal it.” They began walking, balancing the large table between them.

“Well, it’s hardly stealing—they’re basically throwing the money away. And they’d be idiots to think that no one would at least try to take it.”

“It’s seen as stealing from the spirit. Besides, believers trust that every offering is protected by the spirit. It’s simple, really. If something’s stolen, the thief will be punished.”

She scoffed. “I thought you didn’t believe in all this stuff, Papa?” She let go of the table with one hand to wipe the sweat from her brow.

“You know I don’t. It’s all fake. Haitian folklore blown way out of proportion.”

Anaïs glanced pointedly at the towel. “It sure doesn’t feel that way to me.”

He let out a huff. “Anaïs, in Haiti, your grandmother made sure we didn’t mess with this stuff. She called it a perverse form of religion, and she was right.

People used it as an excuse to harm others, and when someone did something wrong, they’d hold the spirits accountable rather than the person. Why should I associate with such people?”

“Jeez, I get it. I just think you’re taking this really seriously for someone who doesn’t believe.”

They were at the gate when Anaïs stopped short and swore. “Papa, I think my phone fell out of my pocket when I bent down to lift the table.”

He let out a long breath. “Fine. I’ll put the table in the truck. You have twenty seconds.”

She waited for him to turn toward the truck before darting to the shrine.

Plucking three hundred-dollar bills from the foot of the statue, she stuffed them into the pocket that held her phone, deliberately avoiding those disquieting red eyes, even as she insisted to herself that she wasn’t a little bitch. After all, if her father didn’t believe, why should she?

Anaïs climbed into the truck cab where he was waiting, grateful for the air conditioning. She peered out her father’s window as he fished his key from under his seat. No longer alone, the old woman stood on her porch, flanked by the two men from TruFate Landscaping. She wore gardening gloves and used large shears to deadhead the spent roses hanging from planters suspended above.

As if she could feel Anaïs’ gaze, the old woman paused and looked directly into the truck. Knowing eyes bored into Anaïs’ and she frowned at the girl, shaking her head. Before Anaïs could think, the woman’s stare of disappointment was severed by her father resurfacing with the key.

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Anaïs ignored his first failed attempt at fitting the key into the ignition. The second time, she snorted at his clumsiness. The third time sparked a troubled curiosity, and she realized that his hands were trembling so much that he couldn’t control them. “Papa? What’s wrong?”

No answer.

“Dad!” He finally faced her, trying in vain to conceal his panic. Her hands grew cold as she stared into terrified eyes. “Dad? You’re scared, aren’t you? Being in that yard scared you.”

The money in her pocket grew unbearably warm—like it might burn through the fabric. But that was impossible; this wasn’t real. It couldn’t be.

“Dad, you’re scaring me!” He was frozen with fear, or perhaps something much more sinister. “You said you didn’t believe, you said it was all fake! Answer me!”

A few yards behind him, the old lady resumed pruning, beheading the red roses and letting them plummet to the porch. Anaïs heard the rhythmic thump of her heartbeat in her ears, felt it mimic the tempo of the woman’s flowers falling to the wooden porch.

“Welcome,” Debbie Aspromonti

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TWO HUNKS OF FLESH ON THE POSTERIOR FACE OF MY BODY

Andrew Cardell

Access to my chasm is easier than one might expect.

Society would want me to avoid excess encounters with discerning gentlemen.

Sacrifices must be made to put my behind in the front of your mind.

TWO THIN MINTS AND A BAG OF POKER CHIPS

anonymous

girl scout cookies melt in the heat. poker chips melt in an even hotter heat.

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WHEN YOU LOVE SOMEONE

Isabelle Jensen

When you love someone You meet them where they are Watch them in the dark times Provide the light When you love someone You are ready for what they will be The illness although unexpected The addiction although difficult When you love someone Your rose-colored glasses never come off The world is just a place you share A place to be together When you love someone The tough times make you stronger The good times remind you what you are stronger for The day to day feels less menial When you love someone It is not butterflies It is honey, and flies, and hardship, and dinner, and uncomfortable, and really comfortable, and crying, and trust, and healing, and safety, and worry, and chocolate, and vegetables, and love Love may not be easy but it is having a hand to hold when it is hard And that is enough

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INSTRUCTIONS ON HOW TO BECOME VALEDICTORIAN

Senator Rocco A. Distefano

First make sure that you send your soul, actual or facsimile, through the trap door to your cellar, making sure to hang onto the parts that allow you to feign authenticity. Keep the door locked and the key handy, as you will need regular access to the lists of lies you tell and the dirt you gather on your competition.

Make acquaintances with EVERYONE, even the most delusional of your classmates. Lavish them with wildly worshipful commentary while remaining “believable.” DO tell your size 16 friend that they could model. DON’T tell them they could be on television; that’s just crazy.

When encountering the small pool of students smarter than yourself, ensure that you tell them straight away. This will disarm them while you infiltrate their talent and lift their strategies. Ingratiate yourself to your teachers while also harassing them into giving you an “A.” Remain humble when they praise you and contrite when they criticize, making sure to let them know how hard you are trying. This will pass an enormous amount of pressure from you onto them as you climb the academic stratosphere with ease.

When prepping for the interview, be sure to wear modest clothing that masks the megalomaniacal juggernaut you really are. No one needs to know about your post-graduation plan to turn the Great Lakes into underwater condos. If, and only if, it is down to you and another, say that your mother is dying of colon cancer, (even though she is the picture of health). Make sure her faux colostomy bag is on her same side for all public appearances to avoid questions and awkwardness.

On the big day, remember that the tears and runny noses are not from loneliness, depression, and rage that stems from a deep-seated inferiority complex. They’re most likely allergies; it is May, after all. Don your regalia and tread proudly, knowing this is a game, not a community accolade of grades and merit. Rather, it’s a runway for your law career and eventual seat in Congress.

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THE BLINDS

Jolee Sullivan

All we knew about ourselves was that we didn’t want to be them.

So we drew the curtains, and smoothed our sheets and made a list Of all the things that they are.

And each day we slept on our project, making plans with our hands.

On the bible we wrote, sunny plans to see the dawn, to be different, To be what they are not.

Outside and above us, the leaves did their work, Redressing and progressing through their Vibrant cycle.

If we’d looked, we might’ve remarked that they are prettier now, that That ingrained change was where they became beautiful, But we didn’t dare move our hands or eyes.

Finally, We parted the blinds and found ourselves Staring right at them in the clouded glass, And past them.

The sun was the same, And so were we.

WHEN WINTER ENDS

Alicia C. Renda

The colors will return with vibrancy, flooding my senses until they can no longer remember the pale blue and cornfield yellow which fill my every winter view. No longer will I be warmed by hearty flavors of broth and smoked wood, instead left to overheat in the sticky sun. When winter ends the world will emerge from homes and prepare itself to sweat sunscreen and chew on the grit of sand. Hair will stiffen, bleached by salt and muscles aching will rest under a night sky. Drawing from it, new stories to be whispered and remembered so that when everything becomes softened once more we can feed our hearths with language, and let stories sustain our every season.

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PHOENIX

Debbie Aspromonti I dug up my bracelet last night Sat on my floor and tried to remember sun-soaked days Where I lived in the rope swing of your heart Careening into the lake without looking It was always hard to release the firefly winking in my palm To simply enjoy the starburst of pink and yellow across the sky Before it was swallowed by the night Every year, the icebreaker is what superpower you’d want And each year, I say to go back in time To moments I wasn’t ready to watch dissolve into memories But there is beauty in moving on from a fragile past and letting go of hazy promises under too-sharp stars The sun went down And summer ended And I never want to trap you just so I can still have your light You’ll still live on in the heartbeat of July In the waves of the ocean I hear in the seashell you gave me Carnival lights and cotton candy Fireworks and F. Scott Fitzgerald And every girl who’s lived a dream for five weeks under a rioting sun Who rides the train home, a Phoenix risen from the ashes

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HAPPY BELATED

Jolee Sullivan

You sent me flowers for my birthday.

They arrived one day late, which is fine.

They ruined my day.

To the most beautiful girl I know…

Why’d you write that? Why’d you end with, Thinking of you…

One day late, I spent it not writing Thank you to the people I love, but thinking of you…

You: unshaven and red-rimmed, sulking in your basement, writing beautiful girl, signing not your name, but your initial: one Lonely and woeful G attached to your last word only by an empty space.

A rounded symbol, almost one full circle, but broken—drawn in, sharply—then out again, just enough to seem inviting, to let me consider how it might feel to perch my tired body upon its edge, but never mind those belated thoughts.

My limbs are strong, and where they’re not I will put that letter towards my growth.

Your yellow roses are rotting already, and I’m sweeping those brittle brown pieces into my palms, crushing them to dust.

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“Crying is an Art,” Emma Serizy

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TRUST

Isabelle Jensen I seldom remember what I have lost. Small reminders float by to point out the abnormality.

For me, it was this video A woman speaking about something that was probably funny She is holding a glass filled with red wine There is a table to her right within arm’s reach The couch she is sitting on is a light creamy color I do not remember what she said I was too busy being confused about why she was holding her wine the entire time Why not set it down while you are talking She gestures with glass in hand and I almost gasp The crimson liquid swirls but it all stays in the cup I realize after watching it a second time that this is probably normal Just because something can fall or break does not mean she will let it She is in control She does not worry because her hand is holding the glass I forgot that other people trust their bodies It is not that I would spill the wine but the longer I hold it the more likely it is At any moment my troublesome hands could jolt, shake, tip, break, throw, spill And I would be dripping in the very thing I was meant to enjoy These hands are not mine, not fully They are not eager but are ready to betray me She without question allows the staining liquid to rest in her hands She does not need to trust her hands as there is a place to set it down But for her, there is no reason not to hold it I cannot imagine choosing my hands over a table Her hands are her own, fully They will never betray her

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I DON’T KNOW WHEN I FIRST LEARNED OF VIETNAM

T Kosek

Whether it was Bill and his service in the navy If it was the Vu’s—Mrs. Linh, the times I had “macaroni and cheese” pho, lee sandwich, spring rolls the most delicious fried rice dishes ¸ giò, bánh bèo, bánh nâm cha .

Or if it was on the tv the often-played scenes in Forrest Gump the rain the enemy The first time I learned of Vietnam was in fifth grade.

Mrs. McMasters’ class— whether it was through the lens of war or culture I no longer remember I wore my Áo dài knew the ways I stuck out like a sore thumb, when we went to t ếet celebrations I heard the cacophony of the firecrackers— their pops turn to crackles the rhythmic, metallic beat in the background the dancing dragons the way my dad and I were always singled out, seen as not part of the group; and they were right, we still don’t speak Vietnamese.

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SECRETS

Lauren Ballinger It sizzles nicely at the tip of my tongue And clicks at the back of my mouth, The word.

Tightening only for a moment Before an involuntary hiss.

Secrets.

It tastes like shoeboxes under beds and cupped receivers When I say it.

If I say it.

When I do I keep the contents of it tucked away for later, But I’m afraid it’s already spilled out.

The utterance of it is in itself an act of betrayal.

So is its creation.

Only in the short moments between its birth, And death, When a secret is nurtured and cared for, Tended to, Stoked like a fire, Heating the lower abdomen with ticklish excitement, Is the secret something to behold.

I sigh at the fact that I can only marvel at its beauty in darkness.

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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 16, Spring 2021. Hofstra University.

Copyright 2021 Font Literature 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 is 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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