In a dream, just four days

before Friday Day,

war planes troubled Gaza,

dropping bombs, firing rockets.

By Friday evening, I realized

it was not a dream. I looked,

but a voice whispered,

“It was fourteen months ago. Yet no, fourteen years have passed.”

The voice grew louder,

“This has been since 1948,

far before your birth.”

Am I a witness to all of that,

or is my mind trapped

in an inexplicable mess,

a confusion of fear, dream, memory, news, and rumor?

Skies are heavy with twilight haze and heat, but I sense

a morning of bright beams coming.

A bomb burst awakens me,

and I rush to the window.

The city and sky are black.

My cell phone lies dead.

The electricity is off.

This is my days and my nights,

while I read a book called

Heaven Is On Hold.