Poetry by Khalil Elayan
Wood smoke is pervasive and copies my paved serpent, creating barriers among brothers.
Wood smoke is pervasive and copies my paved serpent, creating barriers among brothers.
The feeling of being protected, of being immune, and of being separate vanished.
I could move in any direction or be motionless, disconnected from everything—my life back in Korea, my plans to move home.
I turned to the only francophone music I could find in northern Illinois: the early Canadian albums of Céline Dion.
I don’t know why I think of her now, standing at the cliff’s edge, nothing before me but water.
I felt an overwhelming urge to get the hell out.
I felt as if I were standing under a giant tent erected on top of a jewelry box that bore the Ayatollah’s body.
Every walk I took with my daughter, the world opened before me as if newly created.
Here, in twos and threes, friends cross the piazza
I understood the blank stares and raw anguish when I asked those students about their homes.