Noir
She climbs
into the bed, half-
asleep, hair
glistening, heart din
furious. The clock reads
three a.m. She settles
into the fetal
position, whispering something
about a fire and an angry
man with smoke
for lips. It jars
the room, this marble
vulture that is
Miriam’s fear.
Tiny slope of shoulders. Fingers
that still curl in sleep.
She sighs, little girl. She brims with God.
by Hala N. Alyan
from Autumn Sky Poetry Number 22, July 2011
Photo by Christine Klocek-Lim
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