some of Zeina's poems are available online on the links below:

Immortality (or on turning 36)published in the Nashville Review (April 2017).

Maqampublished in POETRY magazine (with audio). Also featured on POETRY magazine's weekly podcast here

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. 

Adhan | published in 32 Poems, along with an essay on the poem.

Dismantling Grief | published in One, nominated for Best of the Net. 

Thirty-Two and in a Different Country and The Invented Mothers |published on HeArt Online.

Ya'aburnee | published on Rattle's Poets Respond.

Terror/Mathematics | published in One Throne, nominated for the Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net. 

Bench and We Who Have Decided to Live in Autumn | published in Poetry Northwest.

My Town and Your Parents' House | published in The Common.

Milk, I'm Doing Something, and Suitcase | published on Literary Mama.

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.

Parting with La Figlia Che Piange and Balcony | published in The Common.

 

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.