LITERARY AND ARTS MAGAZINE
Volume 12 Spring 2019
CONTENT WARNING:
Some pieces featured in Font may be upsetting for certain audiences.
HOFSTRA ENGLISH SOCIETY 203 Student Center Hofstra University Hempstead, NY 11549 hofenglishsociety@gmail.com facebook.com/hofstraenglishsociety twitter.com/hofengsoc instagram.com/hofenglishsociety issuu.com/hofstraenglishsociety Front and back cover art: “Jellyfish,” Sophia Fox
STAFF
EDITOR-IN-CHIEF
MANAGING EDITOR
DESIGN EDITOR
Hannah Ruth Aronowitz
Kira Turetzky
HEAD COPY EDITOR
Hannah Matuszak
Regina Volpe
ASSOCIATE DESIGN EDITOR Cecilia Gray
COPY EDITORS Olivia DeFiore
Claire Helena
Alyssa Minkoff
Sam Whitman
GENERAL STAFF Jessica Bajorek Andrew Cardell Julia Coyle Emily Ewing Rachel Farina Sophia Fox Jessica Hansen Isabelle Jensen
Sabrina Josephson Annie Kellogg Natalie Koontz Grete Kraus Kira Kusakavitch Ryan Malloy Kate Meagher
SPECIAL THANKS
Audra Nemirow Catie Pfeiffer Sarah Robbins Lauren Sager Samantha Slootmaker Brooke Sokoloski Olivia Wisse Rachel Wright
Eric Brogger Craig Rustici Melanie Rainone Denise Campos Hofstra University English Department
LETTER FROM THE EDITOR-IN-CHIEF Every other headline I read seems to be some kind of melodramatic proclamation of the disinterest young people have toward reading—“millennials are killing the book industry” is one of my personal favorites. This one in particular is especially hilarious, as it was young readers who revitalized the industry back in the late 90s and were the impetus for one of the best-selling genres in modern fiction—young adult. These headlines and articles become all the more ridiculous to me as I look around at my peers. The assumption that this digital generation cannot sit still long enough to make it through a literary classic is absurd; we’ve all had to read Jane Eyre or something of similar length and soullessness. What I see is young people deciding what to read and, consequently, deciding what is published, what becomes popular, and what is heralded. I see young people choosing to read stories that they enjoy, stories that reflect the world they live in and represent them and their friends. They read what they want to read. And then they write what they want to write. They write what they believe should be out in the world. The idea that young people don’t respect or understand conventions and standards is false; they simply wish to challenge the existing model and create something specific to their own experiences. They write for themselves. I hope that’s why you picked up this magazine. I hope you’re as excited to read these words as I was to have a part in putting them out in the world. Every submission we received was read and considered and heatedly debated. I want to thank everyone who worked on the magazine this semester. Our editorial and design teams (Regina Volpe, where would I be without you?) put an inordinate amount of time and energy into working on this issue and making it what we all wanted it to be. To my entire Hofstra English Society family: It’s been real, kiddos. Kevin and I will miss you bunches. Hannah Aronowitz, Editor-in-Chief, Font
CONTENTS a temporary cure for sadness Gold Tinted Glasses Apricot Tint prints Bones On Island Belong To Amelia Earhart Sploosh! Pharamorick 669 I Can’t Be Your Girlfriend
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பாரிஜாதம reclaiming an overgrown garden February Cat Selfie Untitled Inching Stefon CAVITY Time for Hippo Meat Space Oddity Bertram Flowers, PhD I Think Birds Are Beautiful I, too, wonder what my tongue tastes like I Hate Needles...And Fried Chicken Too She’s Got No Eyes Dance Dance Dance Party Cryptid can the universe please tell me to stop... Peaceful Among Trees Ophelia Dream 6:14 am Looking Out A Call for Validation... Poseidon lonely hotel Lover’s Palace In the Light A Walk in the Moonlight Mold Poem Cloudy Moon Right Hand Siren Song White Paper Mural
8 8 9 10 10 11 12 13 15 16 17 18 19 20 20 21 21 22 22 24 24 25 26 27 28 29 29 30 30 31 31 32 33 34 35 36 39 40 40 40 41 42 43
Kira Turetzky Leah Lane Rachel Ward Claire Helena Hannah Ruth Aronowitz Gabrielle Fallon Kira Turetzky Victoria Jenkins Jessica Bajorek Nora Thajudeen Natalie Koontz Robin Deering Jessica Hansen Sarah Ogaard Jessica Hansen Caroline Lea Andrew Cardell Sharon Rus Issybella Lang Victoria Jenkins & Emily Hart Daithi Brady Kat Anderson Rachel C. Farina Sophia Fox Nicole Nolasco Sarah Ogaard Regina Volpe Grete Kraus Audra Nemirow Alyssa Minkoff Julia Coyle A.R. Sheppard Cecilia Gray R. Carlin Julia Coyle Julia Gurrola Rachel C. Farina Hannah Ruth Aronowitz Julia Coyle Kat Anderson Audra Nemirow Nora Thajudeen Kira Turetzky
Sarah Robbins Robin Deering Sharon Rus Hannah Ruth Aronowitz Olivia DeFiore Victoria Jenkins Claire Helena Kira Turetzky Julia Coyle Jessica Bajorek Nora Thajudeen Caleb Frank Olivia DeFiore Kira Turetzky Hannah Matuszak Olivia DeFiore Jessica Hansen Kat Anderson Issybella Lang Isaac Hoffman Robin Deering Alyssa Minkoff Hannah Ruth Aronowitz Hannah Ruth Aronowitz Regina Volpe Sophia Fox Julia Coyle Rachel C. Farina Samantha Slootmaker Leah Lane Sarah Robbins Isabelle Jensen Sarah Ogaard Cecilia Gray Sarah Robbins Regina Volpe Kira Turetzky Daithi Brady Sophia Fox Hannah Ruth Aronowitz Alyssa Minkoff
44 45 46 47 48 49 50 51 52 52 53 54 55 56 58 59 59 60 61 62 63 64 65 66 67 68 68 69 69 70 71 72 73 73 74 75 76 77 77 78 79
Two Women Go To The Gynecologist... Finally, A Painting 1% Battery Sadboy #2 Sea of Affinity Where Are You Growing seance Fig. 23 Untitled She is Yellow Mango Trees wandering is actually a pretty poor substitute for therapy Sandy Toes Word Knots Armistice Kingdom In Full Bloom The Florida of New York The Best Amster(dam) Bagel A Love Poem Concerning Body Hair The Return of Gunther Gebel-Williams (unfinished) Park Words PLEASE STOP INVITING ME... Sadboy #1 new habits A Night in the Forest Rose The Gorge Bridges isolation Saturdays Nowadays How Are You? When in the Wood Holy Cow The Funeral Director see you around, i guess Take Me to Church Some Poems I Wrote Stop, I Love You Things I gotta do Thanks For The Reminder
CONTENTS
A TEMPORARY CURE FOR SADNESS Kira Turetzky 1) find a mirror 2) make the angriest face you can 3) lower your voice, make it deep 4) look your reflection in the eyes, do not look away 5) say: beep beep 6) repeat
“Gold Tinted Glasses,” Leah Lane
8 FONT MAGAZINE
APRICOT TINT Rachel Ward
April was pastel Too pale to keep me awake So I slid dizzy into orange And I stayed like that, half-asleep Until you woke me up in June And it was midnight, but you were Coruscating neon, then cobalt blue It was easy to follow your spotlight Easy to forget that tired sun That forgot to burn in spring I took those colors for myself All the way back to New York I just dreaded the muted orange That was always waiting for me— I’m sorry I didn’t ask you first Well they were hard to hold anyway Without their host; Fixed in my skull, not in my hands They seeped through the cracks, sometimes Speckled the ground, So I could see where I was going A makeshift flashlight I’ll give your midnight back to you It never belonged to me Isn’t it funny how a blaze in the dark Can fade to a glow To an apricot tint To nothing at all To April To a sun I’m tired again
SPRING 2019 9
PRINTS
Claire Helena touch me like you touch the cownose stingray at the aquarium: two fingers on my velvet fins, briefly. I have been swimming in circles from the moment I woke up, and I did not ask for the attention of touch-pool patrons. my body does not respond well to the brushing of our shoulders or your hand on my stomach. I am glass, and the oil from your fingers dots the surface of my skin blurs the images of stretch marks my freckled arms the bloody cuticles I nervously rip apart. I am glass, and you are smudging me. touch me like you touch electric fences. (don’t.)
BONES ON ISLAND BELONG TO AMELIA EARHART Hannah Ruth Aronowitz
If you were searching for bones up in your twin engine monoplane Through binoculars like a seafarer for land Here they are Wild pigs abound Seagrape trees with blossoms the colors of a Kansas sunrise We will build you an airstrip out of coconuts to get you home
10 FONT MAGAZINE
“Sploosh!” Gabrielle Fallon
SPRING 2019 11
PHARAMORICK Kira Turetzky
I have a wild imagination, and I’m not sure that it’s a good thing. It wasn’t always a bad thing per se, but I’m certain that it has contributed to certain anxiety-related ailments and fears. Take, for instance, a trip in the Monterey Bay of California. It’s a gorgeous place, one of my favorites in NorCal. My favorite aquarium is there, and my favorite clam chowder restaurant. It’s a lovely town on the seaside, cupping just a handful of the Pacific Ocean in its protected bay. My cousin, visiting at the time, insisted that we rent kayaks and go out on the water. The otters are active this time of year, and tourists have reported that they love to swim up beside the boats and take a look at their home invaders. The rest of the family agrees, but I am not so sure. Or rather, my mind is not so sure. I narrow my eyes at the glassy surface of the ocean; my mind can see what their eyes can’t. We pull out of the slip in teams of two and plastic paddles cut through the crystal glass of the ocean surface, pushing us farther away from the land. Immediately, panic curls around my stomach; we’re not aquatic creatures, and the fear of drowning is very real twenty meters away from the shore. I sit in the front of the kayak with my dad behind me. I have to admit that he’s doing most of the work in steering us around the bay; I am clutching the paddle close to my chest as though it might save me should we tip over. A cold flash of a vision skirts over my eyes. The kayak, suddenly rocking to one side. It tips, spilling me and my dad into the cold, cold ocean water. Long hands of kelp tangling around my legs, touching, feeling, pulling. I want to scream but water floods into my mouth, salty and swimming with zooplankton. Though they’re microscopic, I feel them crawling over my tongue, my cheeks, nibbling away at my skin. I swallow in attempt to regain comfort, but salt water is not the best refreshment when it’s over your head. More water, filling my lungs. More microscopic fiends playing party to my stomach, my lungs. I can feel them over my tongue, biting holes in my lungs. They’re no longer microscopic, they’re macroscopic, and they’re fighting to escape the confines of my body. Biting, chewing, tearing me from the inside out. I jolt in my seat, startling my dad. He asks what the hell is wrong with me and I apologize, feigning that I saw a fish that startled me. He shakes his head and directs us towards the small group of kayaks that is the rest of our family. We glide quietly along the water, the paddle like a knife through butter, smooth and sharp. I attempt to help with the duty, lamely dipping the ends of my paddle in and out from left to right. A bright glint appears beneath the surface of the water and I’m thrust back into the cage of my imagination. One glint becomes two, then four, then so many that I cannot count. Hundreds of small fish swim in a bait ball beneath the water’s surface just out of reach. I dip my hand in, letting the silvery fry dart between my fingertips. They are smooth like polished silver and cold like it, too. There are so many that the water is more silver than the blue-green of the bay I know. The water shines with a mineral quality, and I cannot look away. But the bait ball breaks apart and a rushing terror overwhelms me. Small fish like these only break apart when something is coming after them. Against better judge12 FONT MAGAZINE
“669,” Victoria Jenkins
SPRING 2019 13
ment, as if I have no choice at all, I stare into the now-dark depths of the ocean, searching for what lurks beneath. A shadow moves; it’s rising towards the surface, fast. I can make out the wide opening of a jaw, rows upon rows of jagged teeth, and I scream. My dad splashes me with a spray of cold seawater and I splutter. He wants to know what’s going on and why I keep behaving so strangely. The rest of my family eye me warily; they can’t see anything either. I bite my tongue and my words, playing it off as some trick of the mind. And a cruel trick at that. An otter splashes in a shrub of kelp just ahead and my cousin whoops for joy. He’s so excited that he’s gotten to see something interesting on this trip (kelp and mollusks don’t count as interesting, Carol). I don’t want to look, I never do. As soon as I look I’m no longer using just my eyes but also my mind. And my mind sees like Schrödinger, things that are both there and not there. Fighting protesting muscles, refusing to twist my neck around, I hear someone gasp. Now I have to look. My cousin’s wife, she’s pointing to something just on the horizon. Just as I look, the elegant curve of a whale’s tail slides beneath the water and out of sight. My family are all jabbering away to one another; this trip has just become more exciting to them. This trip has been exciting for me since the beginning. But it’s not an electric and fun excitement, it’s a deathly and hysteric excitement that has me leaning all the way back in my small kayak seat so that I don’t look into the water. We’ve stopped moving and I open an eye that’s scrunched shut. A bad idea. My dad has stopped the kayak over a large, furling nest of kelp that’s touching the surface. Eyes. All I can see are eyes, and not my own. Hooded eyes, dark eyes, seaweed eyes, ocean eyes, they’re all hiding in the kelp, watching me. There are hands and arms, too, reaching for the boat. They’re desperate, they reach with curling carbonate fingers and cracked shell nails, ready to capsize our keel. A slick kelp leaf plasters itself to the side of the kayak and I frantically flick it away, pushing it and smacking it with my paddle. Panting, I turn to look back at my dad Heart stops. Jaw drops. My dad, he’s not there. No one’s there. The fleet of kayaks, the little armada, they’re all gone. I don’t know where they are––did I even come out with anyone? I search along the horizon for the shoreline but it’s nowhere in sight. Where did I leave from? Ocean surrounds me on all sides, and it threatens to draw closer. A drop lands on my hand, another on my nose, then my head. I look up, wondering if it’s started to rain. Above me is swirling and frothing ocean, giant waves crashing and clashing and smashing against one another in a heavenly suite of cacophony. I am gaping, unable to comprehend the sight. Neither my eyes nor my mind can understand, and thus my body cannot move because none of these register the utter danger of my situation. I want to scream but ocean salt has crystallized my insides. I am mute, sitting prone as I stare at the heavenly sea above me in its raging fit. All at once, the sky-sea collapses, and all around me is dark, rushing water.
14 FONT MAGAZINE
I CAN’T BE YOUR GIRLFRIEND Jessica Bajorek
Fireflies locked in tight-capped mason jars, Hands that fell loosely to our sides, Keys that belonged to the drawer on the left side of the pantry, Holding ourselves still. Chamomile and peach rings that stain white ceramic, Satin head on stone shoulder, Blankets that wrap us like tents, Hands that keep finding each other. Hands that left imprints on buttermilk skin, Affection pouring smoke from tinted lips, Your plastic cup swirled with Coke and vodka, Eyes that cast spells in purple. Doors that lead to vacant hallways, Movement over floorboards that don’t creak under our weight, Hands that know only the boundaries they cross, Flies in molasses.
SPRING 2019 15
பாரிஜாதம் Nora Thajudeen
let your burnt crisp brown skin speak I remember the child in the ocean, the sun on her coal skin, the salt of the sea fueling a desire so strong to become. Becoming the rosy cheeked, I-stabbedthe-mad-man-and-wore-his-blood red lipped, moon faced woman was never intended. Becoming the moon was. the child - she fell in love with the night. she should have been named பாரிஜாதம் for her skin was the night they bloomed in, her breath the sweet scent, her spirit the red-orange center. பாரிஜாதம். the child - she now sits where the rains turned to snow. she knew the cold would kill her. பாரிஜாதம் - gone. becoming the rosy cheeked, I-stabbed-myself-andcalled-it-home red lipped, moon faced woman the only way the child survived. பாரிஜாதம் no more.
16 FONT MAGAZINE
RECLAIMING AN OVERGROWN GARDEN Natalie Koontz
fill me up with roses. let lilies lie in my veins and float throughout my body, gliding between pulse points and skimming under the surface of my skin, i want gardenias to spill out of my open mouth, for their petals to replace the words that tumble off my tongue but not gain the attention of everyone around, to instead drift in the air unnoticed until coming to rest on the concrete buried among the others. plant poppies in my mind and send my thoughts to sleep. uproot the weeds scattered throughout my memory. as beautiful as dandelions may be, they’re deceptive, and make promises that will wilt away with them or swear to grant wishes that we send into the breeze. use my ribcage as a lattice and watch ivy and kudzu crawl up my spine so they may mingle with the poppies until they’re overtaken. replace my tears with rose water so that when they spill onto my lips, they’re as sweet as those i’ve loved; and as the bitterness falls upon the thorns in my throat, let it rinse the cuts from all the times i’ve spoken.
SPRING 2019 17
FEBRUARY
Robin Deering Good morning! It’s February and it’s snowing, would you like to come over? It’s the sweet time in the morning when the world is still asleep and the only activity outside is the little flurries dancing down to blanket the ground as we lie under our own blankets of warm It’s February and it’s snowing, would you like to come over? February is pink and paper lace around paper hearts little mailboxes stuffed with letters Letters! Handwritten letters! With stickers and everything! Loopy writing and secret endings and glitter if one’s daring It’s February and it’s snowing, would you like to come over? Sometimes when it snows in February the world is cancelled just for the day very early in the morning and you bring all your pinks and your reds downstairs and carry your mailbox filled with paper lace around paper hearts and bottles of glitter and sticks of glue and felt-tipped pens and four or five selections of stickers because one really must be prepared It’s February and it’s snowing, would you like to come over? February is one quiet snowy day to slow down the shortest month and make it seem a little longer it’s tricky to spell and even more tricky to keep track of just how many days are in February 18 FONT MAGAZINE
If your birthday is in February are your letters valentines or birthday cards? …just asking for a friend It’s February and it’s snowing, would you like to come over? January is bitter and starts with a headache March seems okay but it’s a bit of a letdown but February February good night February
“Cat Selfie,” Jessica Hansen
SPRING 2019 19
Like a worm Dirt in Dirt out Like it’s good for me -Sarah Ogaard
“Inching,” Jessica Hansen 20 FONT MAGAZINE
“Stefon,” Caroline Lea
CAVITY
Andrew Cardell He asked me if I wanted to see Who can see anymore? I could though He sent an image He said it was bigger than a teethbrush I asked myself “teethbrush?” People brush their teeth Not one tooth So maybe he was reclaiming the English language Making it his own Twisting it to mean what he wanted Or he did not care about spelling I lost the spelling bee in fourth grade He asked when we were going to meet I’m not sure if I was so keen on that idea He said he would like to kiss my lips But which ones? He continued, pressing on He said he wants me to meet it I met a different one SPRING 2019 21
TIME FOR HIPPO MEAT Sharon Rus
My high school English teacher would not approve of this poem. He used to tell me that I should be able to “breathe in rotting hippo meat and breathe out,” without letting it drive me mad…but madness grips me now as my grip on existence loosens; I’m twelve videos down the rabbit hole. I’m less than whole, more like the hole that grows inside me. I blink to see that I’m neither waking nor dreaming as my fingers sink into the pink drawstrings of my robe, and the cold tiles cave beneath me. The cinnamon on my heater can’t save me. There is no bottom in a sinkhole. There is no end to suffering, only commas, only semicolons; only my colored pencils hitting the floor snaps me back once more. No more. Time for bed.
“Space Oddity,” Issybella Lang 22 FONT MAGAZINE
I turn off the heater and the videos and the lights. It’s only there in the dark that I remember I forgot to brush my teeth for the third night in a row. I know my breath is rank, but not rotting hippo meat. No…no, the heater cinnamon can’t mask that putrid musk, that mind-altering musk, that maddening musk. I must find it. Where? How did it get here? I stumble up and press my face down into the laundry. A benign musk. No rot where it ought not to be, but I know that it’s somewhere here. I know it; I can see better with the lights off. Is it on the dresser? No. Is it in my boots? No. Is it on the desk? Yes, success. There on the desk is the glittery, pink pumpkin that I painted in November. It is now December. Rot. Rot. Pumpkin Hippo Rot. How could I forget that Something good left alone can turn bad? Something healthy today can rot tomorrow? Even I could rot tomorrow… but no, not today. Today, I throw the pumpkin away and put on my boots. Time for toothpaste. SPRING 2019 23
“Bertram Flowers, PhD,” Victoria Jenkins and Emily Hart
I THINK BIRDS ARE BEAUTIFUL Daithi Brady
I once found a falcon dead in a field It had crumpled on itself and wrapped its wings to the ground It had claws that glinted in the moonlight and they shocked me Such beauty in death from such a defeated beast I’m now once again walking in that field I hope I end up like that crumpled hunter I want to be beautiful in death. 24 FONT MAGAZINE
I, TOO, WONDER WHAT MY TONGUE TASTES LIKE Kat Anderson
I, too, wonder what my tongue tastes like I know what it’s like to be stupid To think that brain is just air with matter attached To think brain named itself like it matters I know what it’s like to be dumb To suck at math To have a hard time reading I know what it’s like to be an idiot To taste Play-Doh To suck in helium and say nothing matters I know what it’s like to be ignorant To think everything is always okay To think blood is always blue I know what it’s like to be a doofus To be me To be me
SPRING 2019 25
I HATE NEEDLES…AND FRIED CHICKEN TOO Rachel C. Farina
I surrender. Stab me mercilessly with the hollow metal stick. Clear me of any warmth, any life. Stop my heart, I beg you. The needle will hurt less than living without you. The sight of the metal would make me fall into the dark void of my subconscious. Now, I don’t even flinch. I await the afterlife, if there is such a place. Whatever it is, it will be better than living like this. I used to think about which vein had been punctured as my warmth was ingested by the stick. Currently, I wonder if the last bit of my blood that will be sucked from my quietly thumping heart will be any colder. As I fade into my soul’s vacuum, I think about us and how we failed each other. I lost myself and begrudged you for it. You looked elsewhere, I resented you for it. I kept running back to you, I was ashamed of myself for it. I despised you and loved you at the same time. I hated that you made me change. Change for what? You didn’t want me either way. I put my faith and future in such Gemini words. I felt your Taurus horns obliterate me when I realized I should have put my confidence in God. You shattered my entire being like I destroyed the beer bottle I guzzled that night. I almost took a slice and did it there, you know? Right there in the parking lot, alone in the cold. Then I thought about who would find me. I didn’t want anyone to be stuck with the tragic image of my dead bloody body in their head forever. I realized that the person I would hurt in such a savage way was not the one I wanted to hurt. I don’t even know if I want to hurt you. A part of me still loves you, or at least the vision I had of you. You proved to me that all you ever were was a figment of my imagination. My subconscious finally caught up to me. I extracted the long metal rod from my body and smashed the bag full of my bitterness on the ground. It formed the icy pool of depression, which you caused. Its toxicity was now abolished from my body. Yet I am still warm, possessing hope and desires. I am not going to let my imagination deceive me. I see you for what you are, and I want no part of it. You aren’t worth what could be. I think about our better times, which seem so valueless now. They assure me that I stayed with you for incomprehensible reasons. We had many jokes between us. I think back to our inside joke that you were “My Fried Chicken to Go.” That was what would pop up on my phone every time you decided to call or text, to ensure I wasn’t doing to you what you had been doing to me for four absurd years. But I guess that the joke is on you: I never liked fried chicken.
26 FONT MAGAZINE
“She’s Got No Eyes,” Sophia Fox
SPRING 2019 27
DANCE DANCE DANCE Nicole Nolasco
I’m having a dance party alone in my bedroom. I close my eyes and pretend you are here, hands on my hips, face tucked into my neck as the music picks up we spin apart and slow dance to the song you told me played in your head the first time our eyes locked. I’m pretending it’s summer. I’m pretending the wine is the reason I’m blushing because now your hands are exploring my body, my knees go weak, I collapse to the floor. My eyes are still closed and when I open them the room is dark and spinning. There’s no music. You aren’t here. I’m naked and it’s not summer. It’s winter and all the windows are open and the goosebumps I made myself believe you caused with your fingertips are just from the wind blowing in and I swore it started snowing indoors and I swore I saw you tucked into my bed trying to get warm. But it was just an apparition and it is just me here. Alone in my bedroom.
28 FONT MAGAZINE
“Party Cryptid,” Sarah Ogaard
CAN THE UNIVERSE PLEASE TELL ME TO STOP BEING SO DRAMATIC Regina Volpe
i want to feel insignificant. i want the moon to drop down from her perch so close to my face that she spits cosmos into my lashes just to whisper you are but a speck of dust into my ear; for the constellations to break apart and rearrange to spell out YOU DON’T MATTER right next to the north star; for the sun to sink from her zenith, scald my skin, and say to my face, FOR THE LOVE OF GOD STOP CRYING.
SPRING 2019 29
“Peaceful Among Trees,” Grete Kraus
OPHELIA DREAM Audra Nemirow
The scars never scared me; they only drew Interest in the vaguest sense of the word. They rose on my skin like licorice ropes, Perhaps the work of midnight monsters, but It was me all along, unknowingly Etching the lines of my long-lost nightmares: La belle de nuit reached towards la belle de jour To be drowned in the salty sea of sleep. That flood would seep into my waking world; Unreal beauty would set my fears afloat. A girl draped with flowers drifted to me, Singing of spring with her eyes glazed over. Her mad last words told of love lost, love dashed. ‘Sweet sister,’ I thought, ‘I’ve found you at last.’ 30 FONT MAGAZINE
6:14 AM
Alyssa Minkoff
red disk awakens the horizon mixing neon orange and pink watercolors with the blue of the ocean waiting at the shoreline ready with my lasso i rope in the sun and the clouds and the sky neatly fold them up seal tight in a ziploc bag slip it in my pocket and take it home i staple the sun and the clouds and the sky to my bedroom ceiling lie down 24/7 golden hour
“Looking Out,� Julia Coyle SPRING 2019 31
A CALL FOR VALIDATION, TO MY PROFESSORS, TO MY PEERS A.R. Sheppard Hey Hey what do you think? Is it Good Good? Good? Good enough? Do you think it’s Good? Is it good? Is it good enough What do you think of me? Good? Good? Good Good? Good enough?
32 FONT MAGAZINE
“Poseidon,” Cecilia Gray
SPRING 2019 33
LONELY HOTEL R. Carlin
the lonely hotel of the sky: in a celestial corridor the red light dying, grounding in Earth’s basement its encasement of light. the rooms are panels royal and teal, though some glow hot and orange. they are unnumbered, preferring instead the designation of constellate consulates. no one knocks, no one opens from within, but some believe that those who have lived without sin wait behind the darkness, watching through their peepholes. but i believe that the concierge never sees his guests; that he waits for them to beckon him for a wake-up call or room service or a maid or a Bible, anything, but none do.
34 FONT MAGAZINE
“Lover’s Palace,” Julia Coyle he is never sure if his guests have stayed or overstayed— he never asks them to pay. what is there to pay a man with the world’s heaviest task— confined to his marginalized sphere, his duty is to never ask who he serves. God? life? if neither, who is within the walls and the lobby and the bar? if neither, who will there be to keep him? SPRING 2019 35
IN THE LIGHT Julia Gurrola
The newest exhibit at the Cairo Museum is one from a private collection. As an archivist and PhD student, Jack doesn’t always pay as much attention to the new exhibits as he should. Most of his days are spent in the dim underbelly of the museum, behind shelves, between bookcases of manuscripts that are hundreds and thousands of years old. He quite enjoys it among the books and the soft glow of oil lamps. The man comes in the very next day. Jack is running some forms to be filled out up to the reception desk when someone walks in. It’s early; no one should be coming in for another hour unless they work here, and Jack knows he would remember this man if he worked here. His expertly tailored clothes, dark hair, tan skin—he’s so handsome, Jack realizes. “Excuse me,” the man says in lightly-accented English. Jack has to guess he’s from somewhere in South America. Jack looks at him. Clearly the man was speaking to him, seeing as Harold, the receptionist, isn’t at his desk yet. Jack pauses mid-step, paperwork nearly spilling out of his arms. “Uh, yes, what can I help you with? Sir,” Jack says, adding the last bit softly, unsure. “I’m looking for the curator. A…Miss Greene, I believe,” he says. “Oh, she’s…er, she’s not in quite yet. Not for another, hour I’m afraid.” “Ah.” The man opens his mouth to say something more and then pauses. He runs a hand through his hair, furrowing his eyebrows. “I mean, what do you need? Maybe I can help…” Jack says, knowing he most likely can’t help with whatever this man needs. He puts his armful of papers down on the reception desk. “I was going to speak with Miss Greene about my exhibit. My private collection. I’m wanting to show it here, at the Cairo Museum. For just a few weeks. I only need to iron out the details with her. Unless you can help me,” he says. He gives Jack a small smile, and Jack wonders about the real meaning behind the look in his eyes. Jack feels his pulse quicken as he offers his hand. “Jack Anderson.” “Eliseo de la Cruz.” … Jack doesn’t expect to see Eliseo so soon after their first meeting, let alone while he’s doing work in the basement. “You didn’t have to come all the way down here. Miss Greene doesn’t get here for another twenty minutes, at least,” Jack says. Eliseo shrugs. He leans up against a table covered in dusty boxes. “Maybe I wanted to see what the researchers like you get up to down here in the dark.” He smiles; the small oil lamp lighting up the corner of the room casts gentle shadows on Eliseo’s face, and Jack catches himself staring. 36 FONT MAGAZINE
“Sorry,” he mumbles, looking away and going back to rifling through his papers. He’s a little too zealous in the task; not a moment passes before he gives himself a paper cut. “Shite,” he hisses, standing up suddenly. “Are you all right?” “Yeah, I just…paper cut,” Jack says, holding his hand up to the light. A small drop of blood forms at the knuckle of his middle finger. Without another word, Eliseo reaches forward and takes Jack’s hand in his and pulls a handkerchief from his pocket. “Here.” He wraps the piece of soft fabric around Jack’s finger gently and holds Jack’s hand for a bit longer than he probably needs to. Jack stares down at their hands touching and then looks at Eliseo himself. Jack’s got a few inches on him and absently wonders what it would be like to kiss him. He’s never kissed another man before… But the moment is over before it has a chance to happen. “Thanks,” Jack says, gently pulling his hand out of Eliseo’s. “I should be getting back…to work.” Eliseo nods and takes half a step back, shoving his hands in his pockets. Miss Greene shows up a moment later. “There you are!” … Eliseo stops by the night before the event. It’s not a formal visit; he just came by to check the formatting of the exhibit itself. Jack sees him as they’re both leaving the museum. He’s putting on his jacket—not that he really needs it in the summer night air—when he sees Eliseo standing a ways away on the street corner, smoking a cigarette and leaning up against a lamppost. A few coaches drive by here and there, but other than the two of them, no one else is out right now. The rest of the city is buzzing with nightlife a few blocks east, but here at the corner of the museum, all is peaceful. “Hello there,” Jack calls. Eliseo looks over at him and smiles. “Hello.” “You didn’t stop by,” Jack finds himself saying. Eliseo raises his eyebrows at him. “Should I have?” Jack lets himself give half a smile and looks away, distracting himself by pulling out a cigarette. “Got a light?” Eliseo takes a step closer, encroaching obviously on Jack’s personal space. Jack doesn’t pull away when Eliseo cups his chin ever so gently, pulling their faces in close so he can use his own cigarette to light Jack’s. He holds Jack’s gaze while he does it, one corner of his mouth lifting into a smirk. Jack doesn’t want Eliseo to pull away, even after his cigarette has been long since lit. He can still feel Eliseo’s callused fingers on his face after they take a step back. The gentle glow from the lamppost Eliseo is leaning on envelopes them, making the world fade away, even for these few moments. Even out in SPRING 2019 37
the open like this, he feels safe; like they could easily pass as old friends having a smoke. Out of the corner of his eye, as he’s looking out at the glow of the city lights, Jack can see Eliseo looking at him. Jack looks over at him and Eliseo holds his gaze for just a moment before looking away and taking a long drag from his cigarette. Jack can feel his heart beating in his chest so vividly. He studies Eliseo’s face when he thinks he’s not looking; his dark eyes, the v-shaped scar on his jawline, the light stubble defining his cheekbones. He’s…kind of beautiful, Jack finds himself thinking. They finish their cigarettes in comfortable silence. … The debut of Eliseo’s collection is the next night. Jack dresses in his best suit and rushes to finish the last few translations he’s working on that night as the reception begins. He’s glad to miss most of the talking by museum executives; he’s not one to care much for Britain or Cairo’s elite. As long as he continues to get funding for his research, he will avoid them at all costs. His instincts tell him to double-check what he’s translated, but instead, he closes his lexicon and notebook and all but runs upstairs. He’s surprised at how…giddy he’s feeling at the thought of seeing Eliseo again. Jack weaves in between people and nods politely to Miss Greene and the museum director as he passes them by. He grabs a flute of champagne from a waiter’s tray as he makes his way to the second floor, which he could have sworn he saw Eliseo walking to a moment ago. He’s only a few steps away when he realizes Eliseo is standing there with a woman on his arm. Jack’s heart drops and before he can turn and run, Eliseo sees him and waves him over. Jack’s kicking himself as he forces himself to keep walking over, because of course this was too good to be true. He was too good to be true. “Hello,” he says, forcing a smile. Eliseo smiles brightly at him. “Jack, I am so glad you’re here. I would like to introduce you to my sister, Maria,” he says. Oh. Oh. Jack looks at her, he really looks at her, and the resemblance is obvious—they share the same eyes, the same smile, the same nose—of course they’re siblings. “Pleasure to meet you,” Jack says, offering his hand. “And you. My brother has told me so much about you,” Maria says, smiling. She and Eliseo exchange a glance and something unsaid passes between them. Then Eliseo turns to Jack. “I’m growing rather bored here.” “Me too.” Jack smiles. “I’m going to find Miss Greene. I’m sure she could use some company aside from all these old men,” Maria says. She kisses her brother on the cheek before slipping away into the crowd. Jack opens his mouth to say something, but Eliseo’s hand is gentle and warm on his arm and his words dissipate on his tongue. He blushes when Eliseo winks at him. They’re walking away from the party, into one of the closed-off 38 FONT MAGAZINE
areas, where it’s much quieter and only dimly lit. “I thought she…” Jack trails off softly. “Were you worried…that…?” There is so much in what he leaves unsaid, but Jack nods and then shrugs, knowing exactly what he means. “I wouldn’t. I don’t know you very well, but I would not lead you on like that. Trust me, Jack Anderson,” Eliseo says. He’s stopped in his tracks and Jack turns to look at him—only half of his face is lit up by the glow of oil lamps. It’s just the two of them now, alone in the Old Kingdom section, mostly shrouded in darkness. Eliseo’s eyes are wide…scared? No, Jack realizes. Nervous. They’re standing so close to each other, even closer than that time on the museum steps. “I do, I trust you,” Jack says. In the safety of partial darkness, Eliseo leans in and kisses Jack.
“A Walk in the Moonlight,” Rachel C. Farina
SPRING 2019 39
MOLD POEM
Hannah Ruth Aronowitz I never asked you to clean mold off my windowsill I just asked if it was mold that was growing there I hope it grows back
“Cloudy Moon,” Julia Coyle
RIGHT HAND
Kat Anderson Judge me so God won’t have to waste his time I’m sure he’d take your word over mine. If you told him the world were flat At least there’d be a bottom line.
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SIREN SONG
Audra Nemirow I have a soft spot for scarlet women. They wear their lips like red lights; Unashamed ladies only blush when painted. I too own a tube of Satanic seduction, but there is no use for it apart from indoor afternoons alone: All dressed up and nowhere to go. I do not dare to bloom into something spectacular. I bury my rose-soul, crimson and prickly, and sprout from the earth daisy-faced, harmless. Cool Artemis is no help. My dreams fume and flame and I wake aching, but she does nothing to extinguish my anguish. Her moon is misted over, blind, milky eye, and her words, bland and archaic, pervert purity. Dear Aphrodite, rouge me rude and ruddy. Make me Madame Bovary, a dolorous doll no longer.
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WHITE PAPER
Nora Thajudeen i am fluent in the tongue of the slavers the poetry i write is fluent in the tongue of the slavers. i see the words of my ancestors hold less & less i no longer know the words of my own. the colonists won something that can never be undone. the white men took my tongue - even this page is white i’ve lost all that makes me who i am before i was even born. this was what the white man won. i drown every day in the phrases that were beaten into my forefathers more than anything i am afraid of speaking my anger so often it no longer emotes and evokes what it needs the white man took from me so much i am angry but the white man’s attention i am still fighting for because nobody else deserves to have to hear the pain of a lost language more than those that stole it this sempiternal cycle i loathe is a part of me - i am still writing my anger on paper that is still white.
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“Mural,” Kira Turetzky
SPRING 2019 43
TWO WOMEN GO TO THE GYNECOLOGIST, A PLAY IN FOUR ACTS Sarah Robbins I. I am obsessed with labels. In class my professor teaches us about agency, talks about how we say women have historically been passive, but they actually weren’t (but I was.) I want agency, want to add it to my list of names for myself I want to keep victim, survivor, out of my mouth and off of my skin. II. A woman on the television is standing at a podium, in front of a panel of judges, surrounded on all sides by people who refuse to believe her. She is wearing glasses not unlike the ones I used to wear. I stopped wearing them, stopped seeing, stopped wanting to see things. This woman on TV says that something that happened to her in high school has affected her entire adult life. Two more women watch their screens in the way you watch a car crash in the way you passively accept some things (without agency) and cry later. III. Two women go to the gynecologist. After, one sobs in her car, and the other sobs in the bathtub. The first is comforted that someone crying in a hospital parking lot is probably not an anomaly. The other is comforted that her family probably cannot hear her underneath the water. Both think about what it means to drown. Both push their feelings into their stomachs until the tears stop, and it leaves them feeling so hungry. 44 FONT MAGAZINE
IV. Two women text each other for comfort but the truth comes out in this blasé tone that’s meant to imply this isn’t really such a big deal but they both know it means Please hold me. Please hold me. Please tell me I’m not broken.
“Finally, A Painting,” Robin Deering SPRING 2019 45
1% BATTERY Sharon Rus
I dial my sister, and I’m sucked through the speaker into the waiting room, where they never call my name. I thought purgatory might be more creative, but the devil deals in absolutes. You can’t go wrong with breath mints. I pull the phone to my ear, desperate to find relief, but instead I’m in pulled into more grief; this time it’s the DMV, where my sweat starts to sweat, and, yes, it’s even less original than before. Straight to voicemail. Straight in line. I raise the speaker to my lips, and this time, I find Siri. She says slowly and clearly: “Go straight and then turn left and then turn left and then turn left and then turn—” Right, I have 3 miles left until I reach my destination, but my body only has 2 miles left. My body will break down my muscles into food, and my brain will break down my sanity to pain, and what will remain? I’m running on nothing but chai latte and back pain. I’m running down a bike lane to a place I don’t know to take a test I don’t want to make a life I can’t live. The GPS says one mile left, but I’ve given all I can give. When will the pain end? Where does the road end? How long do I wait for Godot? And why the hell won’t my sister pick up the goddamn phone?
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“Sadboy #2,” Hannah Ruth Aronowitz
SPRING 2019 47
SEA OF AFFINITY
Olivia DeFiore I. Summer 2002 Little footprints dotted the sand as our chubby toddler legs carried us towards the water. The waves danced before our eyes, collected and crested, dipped and splashed. We stood at the edge to watch in utter fascination and awe, but were sent away in a fit of giggles as the foam of the icy New England waters tickled our toes. Our moms chatted as we settled down in our spot farther up the beach. The two of us rolled around on the layer of patterned towels, basking in the warm rays of the sun that kissed the flushed skin of our cheeks. Squealing with glee, we gathered our collection of plastic toys to build a castle. Packed sand into my biggest purple bucket, flipped it, and slowly lifted to reveal a perfectly-shaped tower. We decorated with chipped seashells and streamers of seaweed, as well as the best sun-faded stick we were able to find. Instead of eating our lunches, we taunted the seagulls. We lured them in with bits of our sandwiches only to chase after them once they were close enough. But we didn’t do it to scare them. We did it to watch them fly.
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II. Summer 2010 With vibrant boogie boards held tightly in our hands, we crouched in anticipation. Over our shoulders the towering wave drew closer and closer, gaining in size with each passing second. Our eyes locked as a smile spread across your face, one as bright as the bubblegum ice cream you adored so much. The bone-chilling water crashed down on our bare backs and we let out highpitched screams as we were sent careening forward. But suffering the cold was worth it if it meant we could have those few seconds of gliding through the waves until our boards petered out. Only when our limbs had gone completely numb did we retire to the land. Grains of sand clung to our ocean-speckled skin as we trudged back to where the rest of the family sat. Wrapped in bundles of towels, we curled up on our foldable chairs until the sun warmed us to the core once again. You asked me to bury you in the sand and, with a grin and a frantic nod, I agreed. I dumped handful after handful of sand onto you, from toes to shoulders, making sure to pat extra hard over your stomach just to hear the drum-like sound. Eyebrows raised in a challenge, you wrenched a hand free of the sand’s grip to playfully swat at my arm.
III. Summer 2016 We leaned on each other for support, giddy with laughter, as we tried to cram our feet into the probably-too-small water shoes, courtesy of your dad. As much as we dreaded the smelly old things, there was no other way to avoid the horribly rocky floor of the ocean. Alongside the others, we sprinted into the water and let out surprised gasps as it caressed our bare stomachs. Quickly we paddled, gliding over the surface of waves that had yet to crash, deeper and deeper into the sea. When I began to fall behind, you grabbed onto my hand and dragged me along behind you, knowing all too well that I was far from an Olympic swimmer.
IV. Summer The beach awaits. The seagulls call, the sun smiles, the ocean beckons. But whether we decide to make the trip remains uncertain. Life has begun to move quickly now, accelerating until our surroundings have become nothing more than a blur of colors. We long to run from the tide, to ride our boogie boards, to glide beneath the waves. We long to build castles, to lie in the sand, to bask in the sun. And although we may feel as if we’ve been swept away, to other places and to other things, there is always the sea.
The waves stretched before us, cresting and ready to fall. You screamed at me to swim under, and moments before it would come crashing down on me, I submerged myself. The cold enveloped me as I was swept beneath the wave. The sound of it crashing above roared in my ears. With a gasping breath, I surfaced. My sopping hair fell in clumps around my shoulders and salt stung my eyes. But the pounding in my heart, the sight of the next wave in the distance, urged me to go once more. Sharing a wild grin, we dove again.
“Where Are You Growing,” Victoria Jenkins SPRING 2019 49
SEANCE
Claire Helena I want to hold a seance to summon my past body. In my mind, I’ve been lighting candles and cleansing out my ribcage with white sage to prepare for the fast-approaching ritual. I’m brewing ancient coffee beans and black tea leaves in the trenches of my stomach. This magic potion will promote energy and anxiety and I’ve been bouncing my knee since eight thirty this morning so you know I’m awake. The house spiders in my head are inspiring me to spin a web of disarrayed silk around the pentagram I lie down in. Their long legs— like tiny acupuncture needles on the inside of my scalp— do not help me sleep at night. I’ve been soaking in buttermilk. Rubbing basil into my skin and chewing cinnamon. Washing my hair with mugwort. Drinking verbena oil. Why? Because I want my old body back. I want to possess my former self and drown this current creature I’m living inside of. I want to hold a seance to summon my past body. I want to tear through the skin and flesh of this hellbeast and never look back. I want to crawl into my real body’s mouth and down its windpipe. I want to light candles in those lungs, to cleanse that ribcage with white sage and purify the whole goddamn thing. But maybe it won’t feel the same. Maybe it fills up with smoke and I Choke. Maybe that body died for a reason.
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“Fig. 23,” Kira Turetzky
SPRING 2019 51
“Untitled,� Julia Coyle
SHE IS YELLOW Jessica Bajorek
On a peach-sky evening I met her At the center Where tall stalks of grass blew cold against our cheeks. She dug her hands into the earth And tilled it with her untrimmed fingernails. When she called for me I dug my hands into the pockets of my denim. I searched for answers in the honeycomb of her eyes And the bees in her brain cavity, But her answers left me wanting. She wrapped her fingers through my barley hair And when she touched me, I was made of straw. My emotions cotton that she plucked Stuffing the pieces between her lips like marshmallows. But when she laughed, I knew what earthquakes were made of. Now she shows me her sunflower-seed heart And I shake it until yellow petals fall around my feet. How could I have known I was just another crop for harvest At the hands of lovely Demeter? 52 FONT MAGAZINE
MANGO TREES
Nora Thajudeen I remember the cool nights in the gardens, maybe someday I would return. Mango trees, wood apples, and elephants. Cool night breezes over hot summer days bring back a glimpse of my tropical oasis. My home, my heart – we live there. We live there in our dreams. Our dreams – they are made of Mango trees, wood apples and elephants.
Home - Family - Tribe - Clan: We are the tribe of the mango vendors; A family that breathlessly watched as the mango trees took over.
අඔ යහඵුවෝ, The branches grew through us as we lay underneath its leaves. Leave. Leave. Leave. And I left. අඔ යහඵුවෝ - are we real?
The cold of the city emptying my heart. How do I say “I love you” in the language of your tongue?
SPRING 2019 53
WANDERING IS ACTUALLY A VERY POOR SUBSTITUTE FOR THERAPY Caleb Frank
It’s cold on the riverside of town. I open up every battery-draining app in my cellular repertoire and swallow my phone with a big gulp of peach soda. In a few minutes, my phone will overheat and then I can be warm again. It’s weather like this that makes me try to remember August 15th. The day I drank 12 seltzers and kissed you through the window and then couldn’t stop pissing from all the flavored bubbly water. Now I wear women’s pants because I like the way they make my ankles look. The truth is that I’m hungry for a lot of reasons. Is that why I swallowed my phone? I forgot about my 5:50 alarm to take my evening pills. Now my phone is vibrating, which makes my organs shimmy in reply. With my mouth open, you can see the light poking through my teeth, flashing on and off. I have no way to dismiss the alarm. We’re just going to have to wait this one out. We’re just going to have to wait this one out.
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“Sandy Toes,” Olivia DeFiore
SPRING 2019 55
WORD KNOTS Kira Turetzky
I have word knots in my chest. Word knots? Things that I want to say, but can’t or choose not to. And they knot and twist in my chest because I’m holding them in. All the time? No, not all the time. Just when I’m internalizing things. They’re under my skin, just below the surface. You can feel the knots? Most prominently. They wrap around my sternum. And they sit there like a weight. Heavy, solid, and angry. Can you make the knots go away? Maybe. Probably. What if you spoke them, the word knots? Sometimes I don’t know if I want to say them. Or should. Or can’t. They’re persistent. Think of lexical snakes. They’re alive and moving. Now the knots are snakes? They’re knots and snakes. Oh, I see. It’s a condition, the word knots. I’m plagued by them. When I want to say something most, when something makes me so angry, that’s when the knots come. Where do the knots come from? Deep, deep inside. They climb up the rungs of my spine, curl through the turns of my gut, and wring around my sternum. It’s bone-crushing.
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You should see a doctor about that. I can hear the knots. I can feel them, too. They slide under my skin; they’re barbed and weighty. I can hear them as they rub against calcium carbonate and carve grooves into my ribs. An audiologist might be able to help. Is there a cure for the knots? I can’t speak them, they choke the muscle of my tongue and lacerate my esophagus. Perhaps a rheumatologist. If it’s muscular. Have you ever seen a knot before? It’s ugly. Slick, dripping, and ugly. They slough off black grease that curdles in my stomach. A singular knot can weigh up to twenty pounds. How is that possible? How many knots can you have at a time? As many as there are things I can’t say. I hold on to the knots sometimes. Purposefully keep touch and let them sit on my chest, my mind. They’re grudges, the knots. Words that are grudges that are also snakes that look like knots.
That sounds complicated.
If it were easy, there wouldn’t be knots. Maybe if I crack open my ribs, I have a Finochietto retractor somewhere, I can pull out the knots. Handful after handful, I can rid myself of them. A knot-ectomy. Something like that. Will you assist?
SPRING 2019 57
ARMISTICE
Hannah Matuszak We’ve called a cease-fire, my body and me. Gathered the entrails and the shells of my ears from the killing field to curl up beside them on cold linoleum.
I’m sorry I want her lips to shape— but her ragged pulse beats I love you. Yeah, she loves me like failing flesh can love: pale nights shaking our bones in her grip, pill-capsule necklaces left on the salt-specked pillow, kisses from a tongue that only knows bread and water. Each jutting rib marks her devotion. I don’t say I love you back. On the floor, I run my fingers through her hair. I breathe into her: can we remember the good pain? callused hands sore shoulders heavy eyelids belly swollen with food and laughter. Waking up hearing each sinew’s call, telling us how we ran, we stretched, we walked with heavy feet that loved the pavement. Before the war begins again I want to dig up old catalogues of hurt. We used to be— not allies, not enemies, but strangers who might brush past ungently on a city street. She’s quiet, still relearning a voice that isn’t a wail. I hold her I hold her— try not to wait for the truce to shake apart.
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“Kingdom,” Olivia DeFiore
“In Full Bloom,” Jessica Hansen SPRING 2019 59
THE FLORIDA OF NEW YORK Kat Anderson
Everyone here has Accents thicker than their skulls Welcome to Longuyland A fowl mix of hoity-toity young men And strangely pretentious old women A place in which they will put New York On their shipping address (for their frequent online shopping habits) But when you ask them— They’re from “Longuyland” As if it’s an exclusive society when Realistically it’s a pimple-like peninsula That we have no choice but to acknowledge And it parades itself proudly In front of everyone “Look at me, I’m Longuyland!” Star of the show, Red giant for sure Puss-filled and throbbing Too proud to realize it’s an embarrassment Longuyland, The Florida of New York
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“The Best (Amster)dam Bagel,” Issybella Lang
SPRING 2019 61
A LOVE POEM CONCERNING BODY HAIR Isaac Hoffman
Body hair is kinda gross. But also? Kinda beautiful. It serves a purpose, and I would like to believe that purpose is deeper than purely evolutionary. For instance I like to think that the tops of my feet are hairy just in case I ever visit Middle Earth and need to blend in with all the Hobbits. I like to think that my knuckles are hairy not because my dad has weird genes, but because my hands need all the grip they can get to hold on to this reality, to fashion these words on this page. I like to think my eyelashes are long because like fishing nets they need to spread wide to catch as much as possible from life. I like to think that a unibrow keeps fighting to exist on my forehead because, with furrowed brow, I spend so much time thinking (about body hair, apparently). I like to think that I am hairy down there because [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED]. But even more, I like to think that my arms are hairy to make my hugs softer and warmer. I like to think that my sideburns exist to make my face softer for your caress. I like to think that my upper lip sprouts fur because you kiss it. I like to think that my beard comes in a little reddish just to complement yours. I like to think that the hair on my head was there to save me when I couldn’t find a way to find myself attractive. Once, in high school, I had a really bad haircut and I resolved to fix it myself the next morning, and it was on that day that I discovered I could like the way I look using just a comb and a little personality and if you could see my hair now you’d know that I took that epiphany and ran with it. But the hair on my chest? Well that is a new development. It came around right around when you did. So, I like to think that my chest has sprouted hair, because my heart is warmer with you in it, and I am growing a fur coat to keep you cozy. 62 FONT MAGAZINE
It seems ironically funny to me that what finally “put some hair on my goddamn chest,” what made me more “manly,” was loving a man. But I think that is fitting. Manliness should be about feeling your emotions, celebrating your being, loving and being loved, losing the stern facade masculinity has tried to shove upon you. And just like my scalp hair gave me a reason to love how I look, my body hair, with your help, gives me a reason to love who I am. I like to think that shaving is overrated as hell, for any gender. Fuck shaving. Your hair, that’s what keeps you warm, and warmth, love, that’s what keeps you alive.
“The Return of Gunther Gebel-Williams (unfinished),” Robin Deering SPRING 2019 63
“Park Words,” Alyssa Minkoff
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PLEASE STOP INVITING ME TO YOUR HOUSE-WARMING PARTY I ALREADY WENT LAST SUMMER Hannah Ruth Aronowitz
I’ve been to several house-warming parties this past year, and each time I worry The gift I bring is less appropriate, less desirable Than the last Two Saturday nights ago I arrived at a fourth or ninth floor walk-up in South Slope with a basket over each wrist, one filled with chicken heads, the other: dried daffodils The host took each graciously, peering into the baskets and then holding them both at arm’s length upon learning their contents, but still thanking me with words I kept my shoes on and offered to help with the refreshments
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“Sadboy #1,” Hannah Ruth Aronowitz
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NEW HABITS Regina Volpe
lately i’ve been having to remind myself to unclench my jaw. i chalked the headaches up to caffeine but when my temples still screamed after three square meals of a medium dark roast— room for almond milk and honey— i told myself that maybe i should pry my molars apart. it’s become a daily mantra. i bought a new shampoo to get rid of a dry scalp. (i bought a new shampoo so i don’t smell like myself.) i let the water scald me so ispahan soaks in, replaces what was there, becomes my new musk. i bought a new face wash full of tiny stones meant to excavate layers and layers of my skin (i don’t know what i’m trying to uncover.) lately i haven’t been as scared of the dark. stumbling out of the pharmacy in the winter pitch, one hand white-knuckled on a box of band-aids, the other building a dam out of a crunch bar in my trembling mouth, i sob into my steering wheel as the automatic door light fades away. eventually i can lift my head long enough for the drive home hiding in the dark of the car with picked-at nails digging into the pleather wheel, and crunch bar half eaten in the passenger’s seat.
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“A Night in the Forest,” Sophia Fox
“Rose,” Julia Coyle 68 FONT MAGAZINE
“The Gorge,” Rachel C. Farina
BRIDGES
Samantha Slootmaker Over Goffle Brook, we threw rocks in the stream, looking at the water cascading down. Nursery rhymes of London Bridge falling, sticks and stones trying to rebuild it, only for it to fall over and over again. To places like Terabithia, full of wonder and hope Only to learn that sometimes little girls die for no reason I am left with a feeling of betrayal Bridges should lead to lands of opportunity Golden Gates of happenings, not broken homes and lost opportunities Some bridges must lie over troubled waters Guarded by trolls and dragons to protect the princess— But some princesses can’t be saved, no matter how hard we try. My childhood contained a lot of bridges. SPRING 2019 69
“isolation,” Leah Lane
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SATURDAYS NOWADAYS Sarah Robbins
They’re saying there was a shooting today. Today, I’m making pancakes for breakfast looking at Halloween costumes on Instagram, today I’m thinking about maybe going to Trader Joe’s realizing I’m running out of birth control, wondering if I have enough alcohol at home to get outrageously drunk. They’re saying four people are dead. Today, I am getting my affairs in order by taking out my small intestine and braiding it tightly before putting it back in. Today, I am sitting in the shower and letting boiling hot water hit my face for an hour, waiting to become translucent. Today, I am reading every article, and update, and wondering if my hands will regain feeling. They’re saying eight people are dead. Today I hesitate to wear my star. I think that maybe if I swallow it I can let the sharp points cut my esophagus as it goes down, because the metal will be cool and slick. Is it such a problem, really, to bleed internally if my stomach will digest it anyway? A book I read said that there’s mercury in my blood, that my tissues are holding toxins, that this country is acidic and it’s going to kill us all if we don’t start chugging purified lemon water between every single breath— Today, I think about all the things all the people that will kill me without hesitation. They say if you don’t keep living your best life then you’ve let them win. But I’ve started imagining a gunman bursting in to any public space I occupy and I think it’s starting to get to me. Four injured; Eleven dead.
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HOW ARE YOU? Isabelle Jensen
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Cursed by uncertainty, I question. Question if I am ready to do this again. Can I just change my mind all the time? Lesbian For Certain: Four Years Questioning: On and Off again for my whole life But right now we’re going steady So for the total of zero people who asked, My Sexuality Status: Complicated My Relationship Status: Taken by a man But it was not a phase. He did not turn me. Maybe it was a misunderstanding Or an uninformed decision. Yeah, I thought I was a lesbian, too. Yes, this makes my future uncertain. No, I am not sure of anything. Perhaps I never will be. But I do like him. But girls are still hot. Yeah, I think this makes me happy. Yes, he makes me happy. Thank you for asking.
WHEN IN THE WOOD Sarah Ogaard 1. 2. 3. 4. 5. 6. 7. 8. 9. 10. 11. 12. 13. 14. 15. 16. 17. 18.
Wear sturdy boots. Wear sturdier pants. Deer are friends. Try not to spook them. If the wind is still but the bushes move regardless, leave calmly. They will not harm you. Yet. Birds are neutral, but that which they report to isn’t. Bring an apple for the deer. If it starts to rain, go home. If it starts to thunder, wait it out. If it starts to lightning, run. Do not sit in clearings that are perfect circles. Leave nothing but footprints. Make sure you are leaving footprints. Do not cross still water. Do not take what isn’t yours. But, always take what you are given. Leaves of three, leave them be. You may see stars in daylight. Do not be alarmed, they are just passing by. So are you. You will know when to leave. Listen.
“Holy Cow,” Cecilia Gray SPRING 2019 73
THE FUNERAL DIRECTOR Sarah Robbins
Someone asks her if she’s related to the deceased, she says no, she’s just a good friend. She seems to be good friends with everyone, and everyone she’s good friends with will die someday. It’s her job to take care of it. Women who take care of everything want for nothing because everything is taken care of. The funeral director takes care of everything because everyone asks her to take care of it because she has always taken care of everything. It comes with the territory of being the oldest. The funeral director will die someday. You will know because a flock of eightynine crows will line up single file and leave a feather on your doorstep. Please bring them to the church in three days. Please dress appropriately; the funeral director demands your respect. Women who take care of everything were told on their second day of life that they will soon have a sibling, making them the eldest sibling, making them the one who has to take care of everything. They spend their infancies planning. These babies do not need to be swaddled. It is important that they can move their arms. The funeral director will die someday. When she does, the crows will find another daughter in a womb. You will know you have been chosen when a bright white fox drinks the water funneling out of your rain gutter for three stormy days. The fox will cry for three more days, and you will not be able to chase it off. Buy a pregnancy test; it will be positive. Your daughter will continue a legacy. Women who take care of everything usually die younger than women should. They are tired. You will not realize she got older because she never let her hair grow grey and she is always wearing makeup and she is always on her feet. She will sleep when she’s dead, she says, and it is true. The funeral director will die someday. When she does, no one will be prepared to prepare her for the next life. She never said if she wants Catholic mass, she never said if she still loves God. She only said that she wants to be cremated. She does not want to take up too much space. Women who take care of everything deserve prayers and gold and dead crows burnt on pyres in their names. They deserve perfect weather. Warm ocean water that they can walk right into and never return from.
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SEE YOU AROUND, I GUESS
Regina Volpe
we used to say we were like sharks. that we had to keep moving at all times or else we would sink deadweight to the bottom of the ocean, bubbles floating up from our noses, fingers unlocking and turning blue. i used to think it was just the sads— running from the inevitable good-bye but now i’m not so sure. i don’t know what’s at the bottom of the ocean. dead sharks, a lot of shit, an iron ring, a dried bouquet, too much plastic, a box with my name on it, disposable cameras some mix cds, more shit, dinosaur bones, all churning in the cold. my mom always said this thing about dreams, that when you dream of someone, they’re dreaming of you too. you were in my dream last night. standing in a kitchen we didn’t recognize, and my teeth kept falling out when i tried to talk. mom always told me that visions of teeth falling out symbolize insecurity, something you’re holding back from the world. but i’m convinced i’m getting scurvy. we used to say we were like sharks. we used to say that we were fine. we used to say it’s not good-bye. we don’t really say anything anymore.
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“Take Me to Church,” Kira Turetzky
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SOME POEMS I WROTE Daithi Brady
Take the world in stride, stop complaining, and stop making me look up from my book. (Only to be read under your breath while someone is complaining) My only view on sex, politics, and gender is love who you love and feel how you feel, but if I don’t fancy you then don’t make me an enemy of what you are. (Only to be read in an uncomfortable room, think of it as a peace treaty) I look at those who wear band shirts and I know their music is good. Their fans wear it like wearing a flag; that’s why I despise classical music, no good band shirts. (Only to be read while listening to classical music, I recommend Der Ring des Nibelungen — Richard Wagner) I took up writing, poetry, drawing, painting, and in general the humanities; because it’s easier than making money. (Only to be read when drinking coffee at an unreasonable hour) I listen to intelligent noise when sleeping; like podcasts about the human brain, or the current news. Not because I’m posh, but because I want to sound like I am just in case I die in my sleep. (Only to be read out loud)
“Stop, I Love You,” Sophia Fox SPRING 2019 77
Things I gotta do •Move to Vermont •Reconnect with my dog
-Hannah Ruth Aronowitz
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“Thanks For The Reminder,” Alyssa Minkoff
SPRING 2019 79
Disclaimer Font exclusively features the work of Hofstra University students. Each staff member reviewed and ranked submissions blindly.
Font Literary and Arts Magazine. Volume 12, Spring 2019. Hofstra University. Copyright 2019 Font Literature and Art. All artwork and literature contained in this publication are copyright 2019 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. PRINTED IN USA
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A PRODUCTION OF THE HOFSTRA ENGLISH SOCIETY