The Art of Forgery

Alexa Julian

In class we discussed the art of forgery

The slant, size, shape, style of your words

That make them your own

Penmanship marked by your voice: You always wrote in all capitals

And you talked like it, too

The free pen you got from work

Dying blue ink scrawling names and numbers

On sheets of paper to be crumbled and forgotten

Discarded weeks later when I clean up the mess

Ink smearing and running, though it had long dried

At my desk, I mimic you:

Tiny print, bold and sharp strokes

The tip of my ballpoint pen pressing so hard

I think the paper might rip

I summon you back into my life

Leaning over me from behind

Left hand on my left shoulder

Right hand atop my own

Guiding my stroke, teaching me to write

I feel close to you for a moment

As though your words are mine

As though I am part of you

But then, I stumble on the “t”

Cutting the stroke short where you let it drag

Your hand leaves mine, you retreat

And I am left with hollow words

Ink, pen, and memory

Hope Alex

His Hands And Me

Kaela Ryan

i feel too big in his hands. like i am water and i inevitably spill on the floor, even if he clasps his hands tightly. he cannot hold all of me. even if he claims he can. try as he might, i am just too much for him, i think. and his hands are big. they stretch so far they can touch the earth. he likes to wrap his fingers around the roots of the daisies planted in his backyard every so often just to ground himself (literally). my cups look like those my dolls sipped out of when i was a child when he raises one to his lips. and my own hand appears infinitesimal in his grasp. but yet, when my tears come rushing out, his hands seem to shrink, and they sit lamely on his lap instead of wiping my eyes. he places a hand on the flesh of my hip and i am so ashamed that we are not like puzzle pieces that fit perfectly together, that instead my parts are too big for him to hold in their entirety. and yet why does he attempt to hold my body but not the complicated scary parts that reside within it? i know i must continue to become less and less until only my shell is left, penetrable and accessible for him yet void of any guts that could seep out and stain his shirt. or his hands. those beautiful hands. that i know i should feel lucky enough to even have sweep alongside my thigh. and i do feel lucky. i feel so much gratitude. but i cannot help feeling like something isn’t right. because why do i offer myself up whole for him but am left to piece myself back together when he leaves? he hands me all of himself and i have come to crave it, these moments where i can feel all of his weight and suddenly am nothing but a vessel to carry him along and i feel of service, like this is my calling. but it is never mutual. i’m not asking him to swallow my juices and take me inside of him for the rest of his life, just to be gentle and accepting for a few minutes, that is all.