I paid my privilege for a ticket, hopeful

that from 35,000

reality would shine blue and green,

not red and viscous.

I sought days without tach-tach,

nights free of children crying “auntie”

from a freezing caravan

under a GRM-enabled sign: Human Appeal UK.

Isn’t escape sometimes justified?

I recline, press “new releases” on my private screen

noting

that my compassion excludes

those who self-medicate with berry-flavored argila

at the cost of a chicken dinner for a family in Rafah.

Hypocrite. And naïve!

Return renewed? Ha!

If not to the physical front lines where kafiyas meet tear gas,

then to the psychic front lines where adrenalin meets exhaustion.

From which store in Manara Square does one buy renewal? In what currency is it sold?

Chicago, Yarmouk, Lesbos, Shuhada Street – there are too many fronts, too many fronts.

I realize now that I sought solace in a place

that is no more

or that only existed

in the imagination

of a white,

American,

child.

I realize now that I have returned to a place

that no longer exists

or perhaps only existed

in the fantasy of a foolish,

entitled,

optimist.

Hope is a fickle lover. It entices with curly hair tossed with fearlessness. Then it crumbles

into fet-a-feat when you can’t attend the funeral of Israel’s martyr du jour

because you can’t, because you just can’t, because you really just can’t.

The Intifada was pre-paid on a card bought in 10 shekel coins at the Jawwal kiosk,

but that does not mean we were prepared for the lights to go out.

In the dark, strategic options are obscure,

so,

shall we meet to discuss at that old café where the wi-fi is strong?