Hala Alyan

August 10, 2015 Hala Alyan



The sky becomes sickly,

unripe mango rind dappled

with flecks of green. Air opens

and closes like trachea. This

was the sky I dreamt in Ramallah,

a false awakening in the hotel room.

I pulled at curtains against the

whistling storm. But the curtains

swarmed into wood splintering my

fingers. I spun the wood into glass

and played it like a sitar. Outside

the sky roared and a forest sprouted,

abruptly, on the tiny bed. I crept

into the spruces and lay flat

on the rug. Cicadas rustled

inside a pear. The storm became

a militia. They jangled with chimes,

coming for my teeth. I woke

and it was sun and I forgot.

Hala Alyan is an award-winning Palestinian American poet, novelist and clinical psychologist whose work has appeared in numerous journals including The Missouri Review, Prairie Schooner and Colorado Review. She resides in Brookyln with her husband.