Tea Volume 23

TEA VOL. XXIII

TEA LITERARY & ARTS MAGAZINE VOL. XXIII

FOREWARD

Tea Volume 23 was designed, produced, and edited solely

by University of Florida undergraduate students. The opinions expressed are those of our contributors and do not necessarily represent those of the editors, staff, faculty, administrators, or trustees of the University of Florida.

Copyright 2021 by University of Florida’s Tea Literary & Arts Magazine. Tea, and by extension, the University of Florida, has been given permission from the contributing students to reproduce the content of this magazine for use in physical and digital publishing, social media, and any other reasonable academic uses. Submissions are welcome from all University of Florida undergraduate students.

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More information can be found at tealitmag.com.

STAFF ART STAFF Emily Popovetsky

EDITOR IN CHIEF Megan Horan

ART EDITOR Ashley Donald

PHOTOGRAPHY STAFF Zoya Mukherjee Madeline Murphy

DESIGN EDITOR Julia Cooper

PHOTOGRAPHY EDITOR Jessie Li White

POETRY EDITOR Brianna Steidle

POETRY STAFF Gina Crespo Kyle Cunningham Nikki Kershner

PROSE STAFF Sydney ElDeiry James Eschrich Julia Fuentes Dylan Zamos

PROSE EDITOR Alejandro Aguirre iii

Zoya Mukherjee

QUARANTINE 1 iv

Welcome to Tea 23.

It goes without saying that this is the COVID-19 edition of Tea Literary & Arts Magazine.

The fortunate thing about that (and perhaps the only fortunate thing) is knowing that sets the tone for this issue. While most editor’s letters will tell you about the goals we had for the year and how we wanted to improve, knowing that this was the issue in the works from the second half of 2020 to the first half of 2021 means that you are already well aware of what our goal was: survival.

Now, I won’t get too dramatic on you, but that truly was my only goal for this year. While this was not the first year that Tea had faced great challenges, it was the first time in Tea history that we didn’t get to argue about word choice or color theory while sitting around the same table. We didn’t get to disrupt English classes during our submissions period or hang up recruitment posters in Turlington. We didn’t even get to congratulate in person any of the artists we worked with and published. These things are the backbone of Tea and have been for over two decades. I didn’t want my editor-in-chief legacy to be marked by a lackluster literary magazine; so, in order to preserve the Tea experience, we needed to adapt. The fact that you are reading this right now is proof that we were able to do so with success.

Of course, I would be remiss not to thank everyone who worked on Tea this year. I was incredibly fortunate to work with a notably large staff, and each member was filled with a passion for publishing that I was wildly impressed by and grateful for. Even though I only ever knew many of them through Zoom meetings, by the end of the school year, we truly felt like a family.

I’ll leave you with this: Tea, and any literary magazine really, is about capturing a moment in time. It is about reflecting on how we feel and putting that to paper in hope that others will find it in the future and will also be able to reflect. The moment that we captured in Tea 23 won’t be the most fun to remember, but we hope that the work from some of the most talented undergraduate artists and writers at the University of Florida will inspire you nonetheless.

Love, Megan Horan Editor in Chief

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TABLE OF CONTENTS

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1

LOVE, HAWAII

2

TO YOU

Jainey Coates Jainey Coates

3

KEY TO THE MANSION

4

DUNES

Zoya Mukherjee Zoya Mukherjee

5

THE BLUES 2

7

THE PIANO MAN

8

ALL THAT REMAINS

9

MUNICIPAL VS INDUSTRIAL WASTE

11

CONVENIENCE SERIES

13

AND THE BIKE WENT NOWHERE

21

FLORIDA ENERGIES SERIES

25

SOME LIKE IT HOT

26

489 MILES

Zoya Mukherjee Cassidy Smith Joon Paek Stephanie Perez Stephanie Perez Juan Lam Kerry Wilson Sarah Tang Sarah Tang

27

WAITING Brianna Steidle

29

MURMURATION

30

McMURDO SOUND

31

RITUAL TO KISS A DYING GOD

33

FIND THE ROOT, EXCAVATE IT, USE IT

34

OUT TO THE BACK PASTURE

39

TO THE FBI AGENT MONITORING ME

40

WHEN THE FLOWER BLOOMS

41

DEAR YOUNG BLACK BOY

43

CICADA

44

COLEOPTERA OBLATE

45

COMPOUNDING

Andrea Mendoza Andrea Mendoza Caitlin Chiampou Bailey Godwin Brooke Whitaker Karen Zhang A. G. Jada Cameron K. Molnar K. Molnar K. Molnar

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LOVE, HAWAII Jainey Coates Not until he took his first real job at twenty-five did he own a car.

She drove him to the grocery store in a yellow ‘79 Rabbit that ran on diesel. It had a crank roof.

Ovid writes of the gods reducing chaos to order, separating the sea and earth.

Standing on the precipice of the rest of their lives in a hotel room in Hawaii, my father threw my mother’s shoe out a four-story window because he wanted her to remember.

In the photographs, they are tan and glowing against basalt where the waves came up so fast they could have died.

I was born out of grief.

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TO YOU Jainey Coates You didn’t think the second circle sounded so bad,

two lovers swimming in and out of each other like slugs in a jar. Finally, Cleopatra forgot

the prostitution shtick, said goodbye to the pyramid chimes. Helen of Troy smoked

a Southern cigar at the top of the Chrysler building, dangling a heel off her toes.

For Dante and Beatrice, love meant telling each other stories.

The old barn creaked like a Honky Tonk, and the owls sat like patient priests.

We both knew nobody was up there in the rafters; but, if they were,

I would have demanded that they close their eyes. I was no good at anything except

noticing a big deal.

It was the middle of summer in the Florida Panhandle.

The cows waited in the hot grass of the pasture for you to pour their feed.

Steam evaporated from the water bucket you filled for them to drink.

You stood under a live oak, cupping your hands around the end of my joint,

making it possible to light.

2

Zoya Mukherjee

KEY TO THE MANSION

3

Zoya Mukherjee

DUNES

4

5

Zoya Mukherjee

THE BLUES 2

6

THE PIANO MAN Cassidy Smith Music drifts down the stairwell from apartment 304 B, and the residents below listen. Concrete walls can’t hold the notes drifting like dandelions to quietly eager ears:

whole notes, half notes, quarter notes, a slow drip of music. Mother puts down her spatula, closes her eyes, and sucks each note up like a sponge. For a heartbeat, the shouting next door stops, the noise subsides, and we pause and hold our breaths. The sky outside is dark, the window cold, the lights indistinct. All I hear is city commotion and the piano from apartment 304 B, dimly echoing off the dirty stairs. The routine of this music marks the end of our days and the start of our nights.

Melody sure as the sunset pervades us.

The echoes of his music still reverberate, the notes stuck somewhere between the drywall and the paint.

One day, the music stopped. The stairs remained empty, no trace of dandelion drips. Mother never put down her spatula.

The yelling next door never subsided. I felt blindsided.

The stairwell was a carcass of something no longer alive.

The ceiling rang silent, the stairs hung bare, the drywall void of music that tasted like air. No one talked about what happened to apartment 304 B.

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ALL THAT REMAINS Joon Paek Summer was eternal, when we would run in squares and circles with dragonflies, seeking a rare clover or cicada shells under the cover of gingko, stepping over seedlings as the shrine maiden taught us to be gentle with delicate beings, because delicate things, she would say, can vanish like a yesterday.

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Stephanie Perez

MUNICIPAL VS INDUSTRIAL WASTE 10

11

Stephanie Perez

CONVENIENCE SERIES 12

AND THE BIKE WENT NOWHERE Juan Lam

It was fifteen past six in the morning when Father James Feldman knocked at his door. Tyler wasn’t surprised by the fact that the priest had come to visit him at six in the morning, not at all. He was surprised it hadn’t happened sooner, and that Father James had with him a purple bicycle.

“Good morning, Mr. Chen,” said Father James. He offered a wide smile and pushed his thick-rimmed glasses up his nose. He was a short man, and the light of the rising sun glimmered on the bald spot on his head. “I have a humble request.”

“Morning,” Tyler replied. “What’s with the bike?”

It was a small bicycle, even next to Father James. The glittery purple body contrasted sharply with Father James’ black robes, but Tyler thought that overall it was not the strangest thing he had seen the priest haul with him.

Father James looked at the bike, then at Tyler. “It’s for you, of course.”

“For me?”

“That’s right. You don’t have a car, so I figured this was the next best thing.” He patted the bike. “This will do the job well enough.”

It was common knowledge that Father James often chose congregants to do special tasks for him, and Tyler had a feeling he was about to become such a person. It was not something he expected, really, because he wasn’t the sort of person people ask for favors. So he let Father James inside, because he was curious.

“You’ve got a lovely place,” Father James said. “But you need some plants other than succulents.”

“I like succulents,” Tyler said. And he did, because they were easy to take care of—their leaves would not wilt and fall if he messed up. “Do you want tea?”

“I’ll take earl grey,” Father James said, and for the first time this morning Tyler was not surprised. Their very first conversation had been about tea, which was not what Tyler had expected from a priest. Father James preferred darker blends and to steep them for a long time—only to douse it with milk and sugar. Tyler had a more 13

respectable preference: chamomile, or peppermint when he felt festive. Tyler prepared Father James’ tea first, then worked on his own. But it never came out the same as when his mother would make it. Tyler suspected it was because he didn’t steep it long enough, but he didn’t want to run the risk of it turning bitter.

When both cups were ready, Tyler brought them over to where Father James had sat down. He was staring at the red lanterns on the ceiling that Tyler’s mom had made him put up for Chinese New Year. He never bothered taking them down, and besides, it was a reminder of his roots. Father James took a sip from his cup and grinned at Tyler when he sat. “We missed you at the barbecue last week. We were afraid the buddhists had bagged you for themselves.”

Tyler shrugged. “What if the buddhists gave me a better offer?”

“Somehow I doubt it. They’re not as lively as we are. From my experience, anyways.” Tyler laughed at that, and a moment passed as they drank their tea. “I’m sorry for not attending,” Tyler said.

“Not forgiven,” Father James said. “I’m sorry to say, Tyler, but you’re going to Hell.”

“Of course,” Tyler said. He sipped his chamomile, which came out better this time than last.

“But if you help an old fellow out with a small favor, I’m sure Heaven will have some leniency.”

Tyler wanted to point out that Father James’ hair had yet to grey, and he wasn’t really all that old, but he knew the priest enjoyed the performance of himself. “How can I help?”

“Well, I wouldn’t want to impose on your time. I’m sure you’re a busy young man. Are you sure you can do me this favor? It’s quite all right if you can’t.”

Tyler looked at his succulents and empty driveway. “I mean, you did tell me I’d go to Hell otherwise.”

“Wonderful! Well, I need you to deliver a package to a dying friend of mine.”

Tyler’s eyes widened. “Jesus Christ.”

“Exactly, Tyler! Jesus.”

“Isn’t this something you should be doing yourself ?

Why me?”

“Unfortunately, I have many responsibilities. And unlike Padre Pio, I cannot be in two places at once.”

Tyler stood up and collected the tea mugs, moving them to 14

the kitchen. Father James followed and handed him a brown package.

“Is this how you usually do things?” Tyler said.

“You’re asking me if I delegate tasks to people who would feel too guilty to say no? Maybe. But really, Tyler, I’ve always believed that God speaks in sign language.” #

An hour later, Tyler found himself riding the purple bike to the hospital by the beach. It was a scenic journey, but uncomfortable—the bike was a bit too short for him. He imagined Father James looked even more foolish riding it from the church to his house earlier that morning, and he took some comfort in that.

Tyler had asked about the size of the bike before Father James left and said he’d look like an idiot. The priest chuckled. “Come on now, don’t you know that the price of wisdom is to have been a fool first?”

He walked into the hospital and asked for Rio Martinez.

The guard pointed him to the urgent care wing after checking his ID. “202,” he said. “Up the stairs to your left.” When he was a kid, his parents owned a pharmacy business that had the fortune of being next door to a Cuban cafe. Tyler was reminded of it as he walked up to room 202. The smell of Cuban bread overpowered the smell of hand sanitizer by a slim margin.

He felt nervous now that the moment had arrived. He felt anxious about lots of things often, but he wasn’t sure why he felt nervous now. He didn’t really like hospitals. Still, he approached the bed on the far end of the room, by the window. It was the kind of view that was reserved for dying people. It was eight in the morning, and sunlight filtered through the curtain, spilling into the room. One of the nurses must have left the window open because the ocean breeze played at the curtain’s fabric.

There was a man in the bed, and he was made of wrinkles and blood spots. He was sleeping, and Tyler stared. He did not want to disturb him. The old man looked so still, and he drew in short and quiet breaths. Tyler felt like he was holding still, as he would when playing freeze tag, or hide-and-go-seek, in those critical moments as he waited to be found. He never lost when it was time to hide, but was very poor at seeking. He never knew where to start.

But the old man, Rio Martinez, coughed himself awake, and Tyler was embarrassed to be caught staring. Rio was not shocked to see him. “Hello,” he said. His accent was thick with the traces of his 15

native language. “Have you come to deliver me?”

Tyler was confused for a moment but pieced it together.

“Oh, uh…Yes I have a delivery for you from Father Feldman.”

He nodded as Tyler reached into his pocket and got the package. “Father Feldman is a man of good. He blessed me last night.”

Tyler reached out and put the parcel in the old man’s hands.

He waited as Rio opened it. He wasn’t sure why. Maybe he hoped it would contain something important, a revelation, a truth, a call to action that Tyler could follow. He watched as the old man’s shaky hands opened the package.

A rosary fell onto Rio’s lap, and he smiled. “Ah. Good,” he said.

“A rosary?” Tyler asked.

Rio nodded. “Si, rosary. Thank you for delivery, young man.”

“You’re welcome,” Tyler replied. “I should get going.”

“Wait,” the old man said. “Come here.”

Tyler stepped forward, uncertain.

“What is your name?” the old man asked.

“Tyler.”

“Ahhhh. Ty-ler.” The old man said it the same way the staff at the Cuban cafe had said it when Tyler was a boy. “I am Rio. Like river. You know?”

Tyler nodded.

“Can you deliver for me something?” the old man asked.

Tyler could not say no.

The old man reached over to the table by his side.

Struggling, he grasped a collection of leather journals before Tyler could move to help. Rio handed them to him. “What do I do with these?” Tyler asked.

The old man raised his hand a moment as he caught his breath, but it turned into a wet cough. Tyler watched helplessly as he fought for air. When he got it again, his accent and the hoarseness of his voice made it hard to understand.

“Do whatever. These are mine. My life. But I have lived it, and no one will live it again.” He paused for a moment to see if Tyler was following. Tyler was confused but nodded him on. “I have lived good life. Strong. Like rio. Don’t you think?”

“Yes,” Tyler said, though the old man did not look strong now.

“Strong like river. Strong rivers end at oceans, no? Sad 16

rivers die in land. I was born in mountains. Cuba—it’s beautiful.” He looked out at the beach through his window and pointed at the water.

“Deliver there.”

Tyler followed his gaze. It was a glorious day, the last of summer. “Okay,” he said. The old man leaned back into the bed, and he seemed satisfied. “Gracias.” He closed his eyes and thumbed the rosary in his hands.

Tyler said goodbye and left with the journals in hand.

There was a slight breeze as he biked, and he realized it had been a long time since he left his apartment. He was moving towards the beach, but he wasn’t completely sure of his route. He wasn’t the best bicyclist as a kid, despite the best efforts of his mother. She’d tell him it was because he was too worried about falling and that’s why he fell.

Tyler parked his bike in front of an ice cream parlor that sat between a nursery and an Asian pawn shop. Soon, he found himself at the edge of the water. The ocean ebbed at his feet, wetting his shoes. Tyler did not mind because he was busy flipping through Rio’s journal. He tried reading it, but he couldn’t quite grasp the rushed penmanship or the language. But he found various sketches throughout the small journals. Some in pencil, some in ink. Portraits of people who Tyler would never know, but that Rio had clearly known very well. Laugh lines and wrinkles and dimples were detailed with familiar care on various portraits. Some sketches were of animals. Others were tulips and roses and orchids. There were mountains, rivers, things. Kites, trains, motorcycles, and gondolas.

And words, of course, words he could not understand. Though he doubted he could understand even if they were in English, for Rio had lived a life so unlike his own.

One page was a drawing of Chinese lanterns. Hundreds and hundreds of them reaching into the expanse of the sky until they were little ink blots on the page. Tyler had never seen that, and he was Chinese. He imagined that if he had his own journal, it would be empty. Tyler fought the urge to turn around and take the journals with him, to take it back home and put it on the shelf under his TV, next to his succulents. Instead, he walked waist deep into the water and threw the journals out to sea beyond the reach of the currents that would wash them ashore, and he hoped that maybe they’d find their way to Cuba. # 17

When he walked back to the ice cream shop his shoes and socks and pants were wet, and every step reminded him of the fact.

People stared at him, but he did not care. He was relieved to find that his backpack and bike were still there. He hadn’t brought a lock for them, so he was pleasantly surprised.

He plopped down at one of the tables outside the ice cream shop and stared out at the ocean. He was thinking of maybe ordering an ice cream when a little girl popped her head out from behind the entrance to the plant shops.

“Pst,” she whispered, though she was very loud.

Tyler looked at her, and tilted his head forward. “I took care of your stuff, I have a bike like it. I got it from Walmart,” she said.

“Really?”

She nodded.

“Thank you,” Tyler said. “That was very kind.”

The girl smiled at that and then came out from the door frame. She looked around and then ran up to him. She placed a small plant from the nursery into his shirt pocket with lightning speed.

“Can you take care of my plant? He’s dying.”

Tyler furrowed his eyebrows and looked down at his own shirt. The flower tickled his chin. “It looks fine to me. Why do you think it’s dying?”

She shrugged.

“It stopped growing, and my mom said all plants should grow.”

“Well,” Tyler started to say, but she ran off before he could finish. He wanted to tell her that wasn’t technically true. But it didn’t matter much, really. He sat there, staring down at his own shirt for a few minutes, then got up to order ice cream.

When he arrived at Father James’ church, the mid-afternoon sun was blazing and the priest was washing an old, retired SUV. He saw Tyler approaching and called out “Who knew there were so many spiritual benefits to washing a car?”

“I did it,” Tyler said. He was mindful of the plant in his shirt pocket as he dismounted the bike and leaned it against the property’s fence.

18

“Ah, that’s good,” Father James said. He was covered in soap, and he smelled like oranges. “I like your plant.”

“It was a gift,” Tyler said. “But I have a question.”

“Ask away.”

“I was wondering why you sent me to Rio. Did you know I would have to take the journal to the ocean?”

“Ah, the journals!” Father James said. “He loves those journals. Did you have a read?”

“No. It was in Spanish.”

“That…makes sense.”

“But why did you send me? Did it mean something? What was I supposed to get out of it?”

Father James offered a grin. “Really, Tyler, I just needed some help. And besides, you got a bike out of it! For your troubles.”

He pointed at the purple bike, which leaned against the church’s fence.

“You want me to keep the bike?” Tyler asked.

“It’s a gift,” Father James said. “So you have no excuses not to come to the church barbecues. But you can always sell it, if you prefer.”

Tyler stared at the bike for a moment and shook his head.

“No, I think I’ll keep it. It’s a nice gift. Thank you.”

Father James smiled. “That’s great to hear.”

Tyler pointed at the bucket and sponge. “Need help?”

“I won’t say no.”

Tyler picked up a sponge and started washing the car with Father James.

“So, does this mean you’ll convert to Catholicism?” the priest asked.

“Hell no,” Tyler said. “But what do you know about Taoism?”

“‘Nothing in the world is softer than water, yet nothing is better at overcoming the hard and strong.’” Father James quoted. “Daodejing.”

Then he took the hose and doused Tyler in water, laughing.

When Tyler arrived home that night, he placed his plant on the shelf under the TV and went to sleep. When he woke up in the morning, he thought that it might have grown.

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20

Kerry Wilson

FLORIDA ENERGIES 8

21

Kerry Wilson

FLORIDA ENERGIES 19

22

Kerry Wilson

FLORIDA ENERGIES 20 23

Kerry Wilson

FLORIDA ENERGIES 14 24

SOME LIKE IT HOT Sarah Tang I watch that speedboat skip off into, presumably, the sunset. In the back seat,

the drunk ingenue, still in her glittering show-dress with its illusion neckline of cascading rhinestones, has thrown herself at her

no-good sax-player.

His friend, the bass player, sits up front, trying to convince his “romantic” interest to break off their engagement.

In North Florida this time of year, it’s colder than on their beach.

Post-tropical-storm winds rap on my window; tepid breeze shimmers

their Miami waters.

This movie leaves me restless. Sugar thinks she’s got her man, but the space pressed between them is just

a grift. I am left thinking of all the young Marilyns I’ve known, the ones I’ve loved and the ones I’ve been; and of squeezing my non-date’s fingers under the table

on prom night before drawing them back to clutch the red georgette overlay on my dress, watching the rhinestones on her neck glitter when she turned to smile

at her boyfriend.

25

489 MILES Sarah Tang The pins and needles in my feet felt like maggots.

Inscribed between the orange blossoms on that Welcome to Florida sign were the words

Abandon hope, all ye who enter here!

Through the dirty window of our truck, I saw a red-shouldered hawk

gliding over the highway.

Could I see from up there, perhaps our crossing would look kinder.

The rich iron had leeched from the dirt.

The trees grew scrubby, drooping limbs dripping with parasitic moss.

Pines and dogwoods gave way to spindly palms that scratched at clouds. Florida bugs sounded terrifying

to an uprooted child, but I grew fond of the bottlebrushes humming with bees and paper wasps,

and of watching the crooked necks of snakebirds as they hunted beside the paunchy turtles.

Feral ducks were welcome to share lunch if they asked politely.

Eventually, our borders learn to move with us.

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Brianna Steidle

WAITING

MURMURATION Andrea Mendoza I drove with Alejo to the lighthouse to watch the sunset. “The light melts on the waves like butter,” he said, and I could hear the water hitting the sea-wall like a whale’s fluke.

A pelican perched on the tip of a stake in our rearview mirror.

The mosquitos were intolerable that year, black and thick in the sky.

Flies, I thought at first, before the wings and tails appeared, the horde dipping and rising.

I understood the sacrifices made to the gods of Teotihuacan to evade Hell, eyes plucked out and eaten by charcoal birds and legions of flies.

With his cataracts and thick lenses, Alejo never saw them.

Weeks later, alone, I find the day overcast and gray.

No sunlight cools in the water, no starlings blanket the sky.

One sits on a dry branch, puffing its chest, shrieking its frustration over the ocean.

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McMURDO SOUND from BBC’s Life

Andrea Mendoza At the bottom of this glacial basin life grows slowly in glittering masses.

Small footsteps and carvings leave a lace like the stars and worms swarming above.

Here, a seal pup once played in the waters of the McMurdo, cold prickling like the stars and worms in its fur.

Sea stars and long nemertean worms eat anything in sight. They crowd here for a bite of warm baby seal— stars and worms swarming over it.

Summer comes and goes and all that remains is a clean, white skeleton and the memory of some terrific sight in the pale Arctic moonlight.

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31

Caitlin Chiampou

RITUAL TO KISS A DYING GOD

32

FIND THE ROOT, EXCAVATE IT, USE IT Bailey Godwin Ginger root grows in my backyard every night, never during the day.

It grows to the tune of my melodic writing, chords cascading through curtains, drifting to the dirt garden.

Somber, motionless, his silhouette rots, his crooked smile right by the ginger root.

Artist of atonal attributes.

Ballads of bittersweet, burned bridges, though gone into the dark of my yard, linger.

The more I write, the less he rots. The more I write, the less he rots.

The more I write—the less he rots.

Every morning, when grey turns to blush, his restored limbs rip up my ginger.

He lays it at my doorstep, and I use it to make soup, to heal my neighbors.

33

OUT TO THE BACK PASTURE Brooke Whitaker

As I work in the heat and sweat of day I hear cicadas whine in the trees and I think.

I think about—

I think about how the sound of cicadas is my favorite sound in the whole world because it stirs up this comfortable feeling of nostalgia, not the heavy, wet nostalgia other things dredge up. Other things like being back home. Like looking into my mother’s gaunt face. Like feeling the dry touch of her hands, still and silent—

I am not home. I am away, it is busy here. Easy to not think.

There’s a woman in the back pasture. At night, when the sky is dark, soupy with clouds, and the only light is the red pinprick beating steadily at the top of the distant radio tower, I slip out through the back door and walk out into the yard, over the first fence, over the second, the third, fourth, which I have to be careful with because it’s draped loosely in barbed wire.

Then, there’s a rough field of scrubland, dotted with small, nasty, gnarled trees. The cows are nowhere to be seen this late, and on the nights when the woman is out, the coyotes don’t howl. I move across the field and feel sharp grasses slice at the bare patch of skin between the tongue of my boots and my knees but I’m used to it and the night is filled with distant katydids their whine not as wonderful as the cicadas’ but it’s okay, it’s still reminiscent of something wonderful, a palpable wave of nostalgia, a sound pulsating in the darkness around me and keeping me company, what I imagine it must be like when you hold hands with someone and your fingers graze their wrist and you feel that steady pulse, that reminder of life, and your stomach doesn’t feel sick and heavy.

I reach the tree line. All pines from here on, blanketed by saw palmettos. Dark here. All vegetation becomes shadow. Ahead is the red light and the tower of metal that gleams even now silver in patches through the trees, and staring at the light and the tower makes me feel something I can’t put into words and I won’t try because then it will lose its sanctity. I hold this feeling close and treasure it and slip it away into my heart. Something I learned in Bible school. I think of Mother Mary—the Virgin Mother Mary— 34

and I feel sad. I slip that away into my heart too.

I move into the palmettos. Carefully. That bare patch of skin between the tops of my boots and my knees bleeds but I am used to it and soon I deliberately forget. Nothing moves in the underbrush, nothing calls in the night except the endless call of the katydids because the woman in the back pasture likes the katydids I once came upon her holding a handful and she smiled down at them before lifting them up towards her mouth her teeth gleaming and—

Crunch. My boots on dry twigs, tough palmetto leaves, pinecones.

The scenery swims.

I am not tired despite the hour being so late and the fact that I worked in the barn all day. A strange energy balloons my limbs and keeps my legs moving even though my head starts to pound and my breathing gets heavier. Endless pines, endless palmettos, the whine of katydids. The red light will never stop its ceaseless pull. It’s easy not to think much.

This morning I watched a heifer give birth to her first calf.

The farm hands were working on her for an hour or more, sweat and blood and fluid mixing in the hay. I had stopped shoveling and watched as slowly, slowly, the calf ’s head poked out, twitching and heaving and frothing at the mouth, pupils rolling back into the skull.

The sound it made reminded me of my mother trying to choke down soup. A brittle hand on my wrist as she muttered through a mouth full of liquid about her child—a stillbirth. I stood beside her, trying to ignore the disgust heavy in my stomach. I felt the bone beneath her paper-thin skin. I squeezed her wrist. No pulse. The calf had no pulse. Had choked on its tongue during delivery.

It is for the best the woman in the back pasture says. She lifts up her long curtain of tangled hair and reveals the pit in her stomach as a lover might. I have never known a lover. I feel nothing staring at her naked body. Except. Except when the hole where her stomach should be beckons and I begin to feel something when I stare into that absence beyond absence, that comfortable nostalgia that washes over me when I hear cicadas.

Something leaves me then, when I reach inside the pit, but I don’t mind. I know I won’t miss it.

Always, always after, she lets her hair fall back over her body 35

and then gently she places a hand in my hand and there is such a sadness between us in that brief moment Mother Mary—Virgin Mother Mary—treasures that feeling deep in her heart and keeps it close and I keep this feeling closest because her hand has such a fullness I have not felt in such a long time. I want more. It is the only thing I feel strongly about. The day passes and the cicadas whine and I do my barn work with the other hired hands and yet that urge is solid and warm in my chest. I think of the calf lying in an amber pool and think of how things keep coming back out, even though I try to slip them away. I cannot keep them down forever. The woman can. She takes those things and they are gone forever. I need more. I need to ask her for more tonight.

I drift through the pines. The light beats steadily above. Close. Very close now.

I feel the pull of that pit, a million threads of spider silk tugging me forward, promising the comfort of an empty church, or my mother’s arms when I was young before she became too weak to hold me tightly—

The forest opens up once more into dense, overgrown pasture. The base of the radio tower is now visible, clogged with tendrils of potato vines and other choking plants, guarding a concrete structure whose white paint glows in the dark. A hot, humid breeze blows across the back pasture and when it caresses my face I feel an incredible longing for something I don’t recognize and so I do the only thing I can do to fill it moving forward toward the structure, waist deep in weeds.

Silhouetted in the empty doorway, she stands with dark long hair still flat against her body despite the strengthening wind. I hurry, I hurry towards her dark shape and there is a lightness in the pit of my stomach, a lack of things wet and heavy, I will hug her tight to my chest now filled with warmth and I will treasure all of this and right now right now she is watching with dark eyes and a sweet smile as I reach 36

her, breathless, and there is fear mixed in with my anticipation but it is easy not to think and I reach out to her, her hand grasps mine and her hand is so warm and full and pulses as she pulls me close and slips me away to treasure forever in the comfortable emptiness, and it’s all alright—but I will miss hearing the cicadas one last time.

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TO THE FBI AGENT MONITORING ME Karen Zhang i know you’re watching me write this poem, watching the way i’m backspacing and hesitating and rewriting as i realize that i don’t know what to call the blinking vertical line that appears when i type. i’m googling it now and wondering what you think of me and all of my digitized flaws. i still can’t spell “february” consistently and watch youtube religiously and write too much bad poetry—but you knew that already. some days i’m barely functional, just keyboard smashes and a rambling graveyard of search history. a rendezvous for one. to be honest, at this point you probably know me better than i do.

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WHEN THE FLOWER BLOOMS A. G. My least favorite college development is that, with only one month left, I finally relate to break-up poetry.

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Jada Cameron

DEAR YOUNG BLACK BOY 41

CICADA K. Molnar Peeling a fresh body from the shell of your youth, say goodbye to the earth that hid you.

Leave the molt hanging on a fern tip where it will be seen, amber proof of the life you once lived.

Your bud-colored carapace will harden in time; today, though, you are ripe.

Let your own clumsy legs pull you away, bring you to a hiding place where you must wait for one last time.

Soon, chitin-heavy wings will bring you to meet the air, to lift yourself to the crown of the oak whose roots you once met buried under the horizon.

They will not recognize you, emerald bug, and you will not let them, as you click and buzz and announce yourself anew.

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COLEOPTERA OBLATE K. Molnar In haste, those large, curved oak doors had been left slightly ajar.

One by one, blackened elytra folded carefully, the new congregation enters.

Their claws slide against tile barely breaking the veil of a silent evening.

The Stag takes her make-shift pulpit, that lone tile raised higher than its surroundings.

Her mandibles click together, addressing Cedar, Broad-necked, Hermit, calling their attention back to hold their liturgy in the peace.

An Infestation, they called it, after the deacon in black cassock stumbled upon the mass gathered in the narthex, just behind those dark wooden doors.

The ancient white van and its man in similar vestments declared it so.

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COMPOUNDING K. Molnar Once, I sat in the backseat behind you, just as the sun dipped low enough to glisten off the hood of your car and bounce through the love-bug-streaked windshield.

It cast shadows over the seat next to me, and when I looked to the tiny rearview mirror I saw your face stacked three times, eyes over eyes, moving together from your window to the road, and then to the mirror, where mine were outnumbered and outmatched.

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ARTIST STATEMENTS

JADA CAMERON - I created this piece during a time when the importance of safety for young black boys was in doubt. This portrait is a tribute to all of the young blacks in America. It is a symbol to let them know that we’re fighting so they can have a better and safer future.

CAITLIN CHIAMPOU - This piece is inspired by a podcast called Archive 81, which utilizes elements of horror and whimsy in an audio format. I was drawn to this scene because it was framed in such a way that it left much of the visual elements to the imagination. This piece was created digitally using Procreate and depicts one of the characters from this podcast in the midst of performing a ritual, during which he kisses a dying god fading from existence. In order to incorporate these elements, I set this piece in an abandoned stone building with broken stained glass windows, reminiscent of a worn-down cathedral. The characters are positioned within two ritual circles made of various bones, illuminated only by the light filtering in through the trees outside and the broken walls and windows. These elements work to create a dream-like atmosphere, in which fantastical things are possible.

JAINEY COATES - Jainey is a second-year English major living in Gainesville, Florida. She enjoys sitting outside, talking on the phone, and chilling with her friends. Her poems are mostly about remembering.

A. G. - A. G. is an English major and sometimes goes on Twitter.

JUAN LAM - Juan Lam is a storyteller who works across various mediums to forge experiences of wonder and moments of magic. His interests include virtual experiences, interactive media, blockchain, and above all: swords, robots, and lasers. He is also someone who believes in finding magic in the moment and meaning in momentum. He wrote “And the Bike Went Nowhere” for anyone without momentum in their life, because only bikes that are moving stay upright.

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ANDREA MENDOZA - I’m Andrea, a third-year English major on a pre-med track. I’ve taken three workshops since coming to UF and really enjoy the process of writing poems and incorporating the prompts into my ideas. I’ve been writing poems since high school, and though I don’t think I am the best, for some reason I just keep coming back to them. My poems are mostly inspired by things I see, learn, and do (as many people’s probably are).

K. MOLNAR - Through this collection of poems, key topics concerning personal identity and connections are explored using elements pertaining to insects. While humanity has not been entirely removed in each work (or even the humans in some cases), I did want to relate these “human” topics to something humans don’t readily relate to—creepy crawlies.

ZOYA MUKHERJEE - As a photographer, I’m still in the process of figuring out my style. I really enjoy landscape photography, but lately, I’ve been wanting to pivot to other types of photography (people, objects...not quite sure). I’m trying to push myself creatively, and this set of miscellaneous images is reflective of where I am currently in my journey.

JOON PAEK - “All That Remains” is loosely based on experiences or thoughts I’ve had growing up. It is a wistful look at my childhood overseas and how it feels to revisit old Studio Ghibli films, especially My Neighbor Totoro.

STEPHANIE PEREZ - In my work, I like to address the role of convenience in our society and mass corporations that seek to capitalize on our need for overconsumption.

CASSIDY SMITH - I am an English major in love with reading. My work explores the stories, feelings, and colors in my head. I’m drawn to lyrical writing that expresses hard-to-name feelings.

BRIANNA STEIDLE - Brianna Steidle is a psychology and English senior whose hobbies include playing fetch with her dog and avoiding her schoolwork.

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SARAH TANG - Tang is a senior graphic design student at the University of Florida who also sometimes writes poetry.

KERRY WILSON - In my photography, I looked at artists from the pictorialist and Straight photography movements. The Industrial Age was very new then. I wanted to explore how such themes had developed over the course of the twentieth and twenty-first centuries.

BROOKE WHITAKER - Brooke Whitaker is a senior English and geography student at the University of Florida. She enjoys writing in her free time. “Out to the Back Pasture” was inspired by the farmlands of Florida, where neatly organized pastures border dense, untamed wilderness.

KAREN ZHANG - Karen Zhang is a freshman at the University of Florida and a self-taught poet. She enjoys reading fiction novels, writing short stories, and creating free-verse poems in her free time. She has had her work published in her high school’s literary magazine and a climate change anthology. She hopes to publish her own book one day.

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PALMETTO PRIZE FOR PROSE

All prose submissions published in Tea are eligible to receive the Palmetto Prize for Prose. Each student awarded the Palmetto Prize has their name etched onto a plaque displayed in the UF English Department. This year, the winner was selected by Professor David Leavitt, author of The Indian Clerk, The Two Hotel Francforts, and other notable works.

“And the Bike Went Nowhere” by Juan Lam is this year’s winner. “Like all good fiction set in the realm of feeling, ‘And the Bike Went Nowhere’ succeeds through restraint,” Leavitt said.

“There is little introspection or exposition. Rather, the author uses dialogue and action to carry the reader through a narrative that is both modest (in the best sense of the word) and large hearted.”

BLACKBIRD PRIZE FOR POETRY

Dr. Kevin Knudson, a professor of mathematics and former director of the UF Honors Program, established the Blackbird Prize for Poetry in 2012. Named for Wallace Stevens’ “Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Blackbird,” the prize historically recognized pieces by UF honors students, but in the wake of an unprecedented year, the Tea staff voted to consider all poetry submissions.

For this issue, Poetry Editor Brianna Steidle selected Jainey Coates’ “To You.” Here is what Steidle had to say about it: “‘To You’ captures the eclectic joy that carried us through a strange year.

Coates’ blend of history and geography is infectious—where else might Helen of Troy perch at the top of the Chrysler building, a cigar dangling from her lip and a heel from her toes? Play along, and you’ll find the flurry of textures settles on Florida pastureland.

Experiment turns to elegy. Beyond any isolated moment, tenderness is timeless. The highest compliment I can offer is that I love this poem in the uncomplicated way I love the slugs that appear after a storm. Bold and unhurried, they never cross the same strip of sidewalk twice.”

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LANDMARK 0.8 Colin Konetzni

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COVER ARTIST SPOTLIGHT Q: How would you describe yourself as an artist?

A: I just make things to the extent that my material constraints

will allow.

Q: You described your piece as “a landmark of sorts.” Can you

elaborate on that?

A: I don’t really title my pieces, so “LANDMARK 0.8” was

really just something that I arbitrarily wrote down—for all intents and purposes it can just be regarded as being untitled; I just don’t feel that a piece has to have some lexical embodiment, you know? But I guess it is a “landmark” in a temporal sense, a sort of node in my creative timeline.

Q: How did you spend quarantine, and did it affect your art?

A: In a dissociative fugue. I mean, if quarantine didn’t happen,

then I would be a different person—so yes it certainly affected my art, considering the fact that the state of mind in which I make things is a state of mind that exists within and is altered by some set of historical conditions, like being in quarantine.

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Special thanks to: Alex Aguirre, Maykel Aguirre, Sara Barnes, Philip Bowne, Burt & Yoshi Cooper, Sid Dobrin, Jaquelin Elliott, Elizabeth Fernandez, Mirjam Frosth, Carly Gates, Dylan Gunter, Hugh Y. Hickman, Kenneth Kidd, David Leavitt, Valerie Lecomte, William Logan, Allyson Martinez, Pia Nair, Eric J. Segal, Bella & Biscotti Steidle, and Laura Torlaschi.