Written in May 2022 for LTCS 130 — Transnational Feminisms — during my junior year. I signed up for the course to fulfill a graduation requirement. I made a poetry book for the final project instead of writing a paper, drawing from Grace Cho's memoir Tastes Like War and from my own life as a first-generation Indian-American. The "book" has three poems — one about familial pressure and the cost of questioning your own history, one about emotional residue and hidden bruises, an

The turmeric stain seeped into the fibers of a white cotton shirt hugging the ridges and hollows of her hourglass frame. It threatened the fragile peace of starch-white against almond skin. The shroud hid the pores of salt and spice and blinded lentil eyes with the stark weight of realism in a surreal world of freedom.

I am no poet But when the rain pours freely Drenching an upturned face And the heartbeat slows Synchronizing with the pitter patter Of god’s lifeblood I can’t help but think That in another lifetime I too, Was free to engulf the world In a sin-washing tide

I am more than my culture yet I am nothing more than my culture The British arrived and left But forgot to take their sneers with them The Americans fought and conquered But forgot the people of this land We came We saw And we resigned ourselves to living A lie fabricated Designed to fit snugly A white mask, textbook hidden behind Shaking our heads Yes, no, and something in between

The wooden drum rolled down the hill, enjoying the feeling of the wind against its fibers. Branches brushed past, striking the drum, Creating a melody that resonated with the heartbeat below. Reaching the cliff's edge, the drum paused -- Was the feeling of liftoff worth the plummet to destruction? Resigning itself to the monotony of safety, the barrel froze in place, surveying the sea of lights below. Fibers began to snap and bend as the crate inched its way down the slippery

I sat in bed yesterday, phone plugged into an illuminated power socket. Layers of blankets covered my legs, cocooning them in a soon-to-be prison that would cause half my body to embrace sleep. A pillow rested on my lap, fluffed up with feathers that sometimes escaped and rooted in my hair. The bright screen flashed with language and story while my mind numbed out the reality of monotony. The warm night air crept in around me as I left my box behind to march into a story on m