the color of hope

She says her name is Ayelet, the

woman in the shop selling the pink

scarf, all silky and flowy. The

color of happy smiley baby

cheeks and morning summer

skies. And hope. I enter the  

shop on my way home. My

first time in a week,  beyond

a radius of seven-and-a-half minutes,

the time it would take me to

run to the miklat. But today

I risked it all to dance, walked

the forty-five minutes to my

favorite neighborhood and down

my favorite street with blue

and pink doors and purple and

pink bougainvillea, usually

filled with children chasing

balls and people walking dogs

and old French men smoking

in cafes. But today, silent.

But today, silet is good. Today I

tell Ayelet I danced she says

she used to be a dancer and

maybe still riding the high from

uncrumpling a heart too

long underground I open

my arms and embrace her

and say we have to have

hope. And she says, unlimited

and just then we see outside

on the sidewalk a papa with

his daughter, dancing.

Snatching this silence

to stomp in the sun.