Washington College's Student Literary and Arts Journal

Issue: Wisdom (May 2015)

Curried Soup

My curried soup looks like a galaxy. In truth, it is not so much curried soup so much as it is water to which I have added curry and, in an afterthought, a single, small, red Idaho potato. This is my attempt to learn how to cook, sitting in a kitchen that is not my own after a winter that was not so much cold as it was hard. If I remember right, the potato is done when you can stab through to the center. The fork, I think, is supposed to cut right through.

I remember the last stew my father made me. It was on a January visit between semesters, a ripe time for soups and stews. Standing in the kitchen, surrounded by paints, my father tells me the one thing I need to know to make a good soup, ladling me out a bowl before adding the meats to the veggies. “This is all you’ll ever need to know,” he says, handing me the bowl. “This is it.”

The Wisdom Market

“Come one, come all!” yelled a scruffy looking gentleman from a nearby market stall. “Roll up for a prize like no other, a gift so valuable that only the finest of tastes will recognize its worth. You there, mademoiselle! What name do you go by?” […]

Accepting Cerulean

When I consider slate,
and murmur in maroon
or let the cold taupe steel
my thoughts for an hour,

I do not stumble.
No every-day beige paint
or chartreuse mustard sickness
entangles my intestines.
I won’t let olive
drab overcome me.

It’s true that midnight blue
is terrifying. And gray humidity
can rust away at fire’s
bold and burning amber.
Even forest green fades
to brown in winter.

But I wish to live in magenta.
While honeydew still sweetens
my tongue, I’ll run on seafoam

steam. I’ll try to laugh with almond
calm, and gently unfold each moment
as a sweetly peeling peach skin.

And when silver does come,
I hope to return to sand,
just an empty seashell
in the indigo depth of the sea.


Sophie’s kitchen smelled of orange dish detergent and a hint of the chicken she had for dinner. She set her plate and silverware into the dish rack to dry and her stone-cooking sheet to soak in the foamy metal sink. She wiped the table free […]


With every spring time that we throw away,
it seems our tangled roots do grow away

from one another. You blossom and your seeds
are spread like wishes, but please don’t blow away

to distant lands and grander plants than me,
a simple dandelion, wanting to know a way

to fertilize our garden, make it stronger.
For my roots in you feel frail and go away

with every passing winter. I want to be your
budding Rose, but wilt, like melting snow, away.

Poems from a Time in Ireland

1. Riding the bus from Dublin to Cork, I felt as though I were back in Maryland. As I leaned my head against the window, you were driving me past fields at night, and we had no idea as to the meaning of the word […]