some of Zeina's poems are available online on the links below:
There, There, Grieving | published on the Academy of American Poets’ Poem-a-Day
Immortality (or on turning 36) | published in the Nashville Review (April 2017).
Triptych: Voice | published on Mom Egg Review's #MeToo portfolio
the Days don't Stop | a poem for Aleppo, published on Rattle's Poets Respond.
There Was and How Much There Was | published in At Length.
Ghazal: Back Home | a poem for Syrian refugees on Rattle's Poets Respond, winner of a 2016 Best of the Net and nominated for the Pushcart Prize.
Naming Things (video)| a poem for refugees, published in The Rialto (Issue 84).
Correcting My Mother's Essay (video) | published in Ploughshares, nominated for the Pushcart Prize.
Mother, Ka'aba, Hiyam, and Untouched | published in The High Window.
Dismantling Grief | published in One, nominated for Best of the Net.
Ya'aburnee | published on Rattle's Poets Respond.
Terror/Mathematics | published in One Throne, nominated for the Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net.
Ten Years Later in a Different Bar | The poem has appeared in the Emma Press Anthology of Homesickness and Exile, and has been featured as Inpress Books' Poem of the Week.
Inside Out | Published on Electronic Intifada.
After the Explosions (first published in Mslexia, selected by Pascale Petit)
For Tripoli, Lebanon, August 2013
After the explosions, I’ve been having ash-dreams;
everything’s grey, even the children’s pencil cases.
September with its play of light and possibilities
burst in unnoticed. My dead cousin
comes to me smiling, tries to pinch me, laughs.
Two days after the explosions, the pharmacy parrot
who wouldn’t keep quiet was found alive;
he doesn’t speak, but meows from time to time.
The owner jokes, “This country will have him
barking soon.” The trees seem to remember
the human parts in their branches.
Some elevators have sprung out of their places
like frightened hearts. I try not to think
about the three children who died holding
each other in a van, after a day at the beach.
I take my mind past the broken balconies,
into my friend’s shattered house, stare at the frame
still hanging on the cracked wall: a fishing boat, a calm
sea. The volunteers are sweeping the street, the kid
who sells chewing gum is helping. The survivor
with an eye patch says it sounded like glass rain.
My aunt sings goodbye to her son from the window,
the red tarboosh on his coffin in the distance,
her white handkerchief taking flight.