Haifa, Israel, 1995

We walked around the base of Mount Carmel

till we spotted the Baha’i temple—white marble anchored high

on the hillside, crowned with a dome of gold.

A block or two further we would have seen

the stairway ascending from sea level,

terraced gardens holding back trees on either side,

the route clearly intended for visitors:

Point A to Point B.

Instead, we entered a side street,
zig-zagging through wooded neighborhoods,

quickly losing our bearings aside from up and down.

As we climbed, streets somehow became winding trails

with paths disappearing off to homes hidden in the trees.

I became uneasy.

Were we supposed to be here?

The path twisted steeply,

and there stood a child, facing us straight on--

dark curls, dusty bare feet, eyes locked on mine

as she folded her hands

into the shape of a gun

and shot me in the chest

without flinching.

I was a stranger, a tourist, a friendly American!

She was supposed to grin shyly,

curl one shoulder towards the other

and run off to hug her mother’s leg

as she hung the laundry up to dry.

Instead, she held her ground,

ready to fire again if necessary.

As we passed, 

the child and I exchanged a cold knowledge:

she knew

and I knew

that if she had a real gun

I would already be dead.

And she would not be sorry.

We eventually found the temple,

removed our shoes and silently explored
the areas outside the velvet ropes:

the cool marble pillars, the vista of the city and sea,

the manicured gardens with orange trees

so heavy with fruit it was nearly impossible

under the Mediterranean sun

not to touch, not to take, not to taste.