Barricades corral pleading mothers, while freshman pray for Iraqi children Twelve blocks away from this NYC protest, I read a book. On 51st and 2nd, an old man claims it's Israel's fault, compares "those white Jews" to Apartheid; Sargeants on horses shove the senior off the sidewalk; His brown palms break the fall. At the teeming 53rd and 2rd barricade, a young girl asks if there's a place to use the bathroom, so her Quaker grandma takes her hand; They weave through Iraqi, American, and Palestinian flags, and finally find a subway. . Throughout the months, I pray for Zion, visit an elderly father whose middle name is Israel, sing, "next year in Jerusalem" on Pasoch, recall the doomed 21 cousins America hadn't let in and now hear of synagogues being firebombed in Europe. In the freezing cold, a friend looks for coffee. Officers block him from entering a Starbucks, The anxious poet writes this down in a notebook, with the burning weight of panic. The next morning, I greet salaam to a Yemenite neighbor, find out that Daniel Pearl widow's had a son weep at night for the whole world to explode, and count two sleeping pills, in a necessary ritual.