Sitting on the bus
my Israeli Paul Revere seminary nightmare steps on
armed in pantyhose, eyes stretched
wide by a thick black headband
Dense Brooklyn accent, perfect Hebrew.
Laughing on the phone, she
tells the details of the most recent terrorist attack,
a family of five murdered in their home,
a baby stabbed in its cradle
She said she’s just come from the memorial in Jerusalem,
where hundreds of Israelis stood in the streets sobbing and
screaming for vengeance
A sea of black hats, writhing and angry
She said they showed everyone
pictures of the bodies,
so they would know the horror of what happened
And as she sat there smiling, broadcasting the news like
a recount of a primetime television episode,
I sat
on the verge of tears
and watched the rest of the bus sit stony-faced,
distracted and desensitized.
We drive through
a market place.
An
old woman gets on clutching
a challah swaddled in plastic, sleeping salty.
(The bus is full off babies,
but none of them are crying.)
Meanwhile, in Gaza
the murders had another crowd
of people filling the streets,
dancing.