Green Spiderweb

In a scene I shot sitting on the ground, a 100-year-old woman

monologued in a tent. I hear her voice in my memory,

alternately buoyant and despairing. I remember

my feeling of self-congratulation

as if I’d invented the extreme close-up,

filming her ornate face tattoo, the fuzzy green ink

moving around her lips and chin like a spiderweb in a breeze

as she spoke of losing home after home,

and of her anger at God’s abandonment

of her people. Others I interviewed were angry

at the Arab countries who wouldn’t stand and fight.

The Americans I was traveling with blamed America.

So did I. I’m American, after all. Few blamed Israel.

Israel was the rabid dog, sure, but the blame

had to be placed on its owners, on those who

could have, but didn’t, stop it from attacking.