1

We are tightrope walkers,

our land turned circus.

Up the slope, down the slope

with Torah scrolls, bells and spangles

our motley shirts

stained orange

we are girls advancing lightly

and babies leaping from carriages,

carried away from us

our boys and men

rush around making wishes

crushed between a rock and a hard place

a boulder hanging above.

2

From Judea and Samaria

they cleared the way to us,

they set upon us with clubs and devices

for dispersing crowds

we have cameras and cars with walkie-talkies

our antennae festooned

with ribbons and stained

with orange

we have maps

We walk the road

approach the fence

and the haphazard ruins

of our homes, stumps of concrete and aluminum

gray stains

in the ashen Gaza sun

3

Despair it was to wake there,

despair it was to build,

the West and its culture and all the beautiful people

in the cafes.

We

the pathetic

all my fault

the great storm

global, Mediterranean

I am pulled under a blue sea

of police uniforms

my saliva foaming the dust

my lips licking dust

I cannot raise a hand

even

the land

slaps me