Read Select Works From Symposium Students!

"My Morning Glory"

by Samhita Kashyap

The chirping birds coax me to sleep

For not the first nor the last time.

With the silent rising comes the awakening.

The crack in the blinds lets in 

The slimmest stripes of a fuchsia sunrise.

Out the window lies the flimsy arbor

Supporting vines and budding deep purple bulbs.

Tendrils of fear pervades my thoughts

As I become unsafe in a reality

That exists in my mind. State of mind

Dictates the world where feet in the earth

Instead stand on hot pebbles. 

Where do I go if not a path

Of stone slabs dug in clay. Found in the purples and pink skies

Streaked with gray lies the future, an afterglow. 

A frightening horizon to reluctantly face

I wrap myself in sincere smiles 

Of hypothetical happiness.

Maybe it could be real. “A picture,” she says,

“My morning glory in front of my morning glories.” 

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"No, Not Really."

by Stella Risinger 

Am I Polish? yes?

No, not really.

Its last survival? In my blood, on ancestry tests.

Genevieve is fluent in Polish.

I say pe-ro-ges,

Grandma says Pierojis,

Rolling the r to annunciate her prayer.

We break wafers, Oplatek, on Christmas Eve

Why? I couldn’t tell you.

She slowly breaks off a piece.

Walks towards me, grinning,

Places the shard on my tongue.

It vanishes.

Like a grain of sand,

being welcomed into the swirl of the sea,

Absorbed into my being. Stolen, 

from the tips of wrinkled, manicured fingers. 

I don’t speak it.

Polish, I mean. 

Genevieve didn’t teach it to any of her sons. 

She wanted them to fit in,

To be successful, wealthy, American boys. 

They are.

And when she retells stories, 

Of steepled churches, aged stone,

She nods and smiles at me. I mirror her. 

In her mind, I have been to Poland. 

Genevieve’s mother is my namesake

Her name was Stefania

Of course, they called me Stella

That’s what immigration changed her name to

“Stefania is too complicated. How bout Stella?”

And when I was brought before her, 

my mother asked,

“Nana, do you like her name?”

And in a thick Polish voice, 

“No, not really.”

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"Draupadi Forsaken"

by Amrita Natarajan

My ultimate wisp of dignity vanishes With the roll of a dice. Though no stranger to humiliation, This is new. In the hall of silenced elders echoes a laugh. A laugh like the Hollow shrieks of an abandoned infant. I stand alone in the center. A fire burns in my soul, Like the one that bore me. His eyes cannot hold mine. He knows there is no escape from His addiction. My robes fall Loose around my feet. Tsunami blues, murderous reds. The colors of war. My mind is no longer a captive Of the sea of the coming fallen. My thoughts turn to he who Is not of those I belong to. Yes, I pray. He was all I had left.