AFTER THUNDERSTORMS IN OKLAHOMA
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.
