what I did last spring in Jerusalem

what I did last spring in Jerusalem

 

tired of rain in April

I took a plane to Israel

and roomed at the

Abraham Hostel,

Street of the Prophets,

(Heb. Rehov Hanevi’im)

where Holman Hunt,

The Scapegoat painter,

once lived at number 64 

 

I feasted Yemeni

at ‘Falafel Hateimani’

and later a pitta

dipped in baba ganoush

from a pavement stall

at Damascus Gate

 

next day,

lunch at a café

in the shade of Gehenna:

 

olives and hummus,

a sweet potato and prune tagine,

a finjān of Al-Qahwa

and too many Goldstars

 

fortified, 

I ambled Givat Oranim,

nodding at strangers

who ignored me completely,  

 

‘lovely day… nice weather… shalom’  

 

who could blame them?

a meshugganah foreigner

was best left alone

 

shrill police whistles

welcomed my arm

and walking stick waving 

cross of the road leading

to the Valley of Gazelles

 

where I sprawled, 

flat on my back

on a sun-bleached

scorching bench

 

the gazelles in the gardens

are timid and rarely seen,

 

I heard a struggle,

found my feet,

and wrestled free 

a slender female

choking while grazing

a thicket of thorns

 

she looked in my eyes,

and I in hers,

then skittered away

 

maybe it was the Goldstar

but from somewhere

I knew that

I knew that creature -

 

had I met her

a lifetime before?