The last Sunday of the month pockets
appear on the lamppost.
I line windowsills with ash
because I cannot bear the
They torched the library in
and I am proud of the tea I swirled
the night you left. Soap
soaps a sink of plants flecking
the clay basin and
faltered I script every stalled train
I do ballerina stretches.
for every smiling man.
They will all die. I know that now.
Hala Alyan is a Palestinian-American poet whose work has appeared in several journals, including Copper Nickel, Third Coast, and The Journal. Her first full-length poetry collection, “Atrium,” was published by Three Rooms Press in New York City, and was recently awarded the 2013 Arab American Book Award in Poetry. She resides in Manhattan.