I could write a poem about Kfar Manda
The woman bending down in the fields
The small child, too
One hand tugging a skirt, the other plucking strawberries
Sprinklers clicking, spraying, swaying

I could write a poem about Kfar Manda
Teenage boys off to school in freshly pressed preppy blues
Girls who look like women, dreaming beneath their head scarves
of American actors
or the crossing guard who shows up sometimes

I could write a poem about Kfar Manda
The dark men by the bus stop every morning
Waiting for work, waiting for a ride, waiting for something I’ll never understand.

The cars race through the roundabout

I could write a poem about Kfar Manda
A village that teeters on the side of a mountain
Tender fields, burnt trash, unfinished apartments
stacked one on top of another
Galilee green

But what do I know of Kfar Manda?
Only what I see and
what I hear

Basket weavers
Cleaning ladies
Cheap vegetables
Shwarma
Terrorist cells
Neighbor
Angry neighbor
Lock your doors
Close the gate

Kfar Manda.