Once, I asked a bald Palestinian
woman to stand inside an empty
dumpster and pretend to be
Joan of Arc set on fire.
She enthusiastically agreed,
having always wanted to star
in a film, even a short one,
even one set in a dumpster.
I wrote a monologue for her
to perform about Mohamed
Bouazizi, whose self-immolation
had set off the Arab Spring.
Dumpster fires were common
where I lived. I don’t remember
if I was going to start a fire or
how I planned to keep her safe.
After beers in Ramallah, she drove
us along a cliff with no barrier.
It was dusk, the sky lavender
streaked gray. The craggy mountain
looked like Jebel Quruntul,
where the devil tempted Jesus
for forty days and forty nights.
Throw yourself down, the devil said,
and see if angels catch you.
Looking out the window, she told me
she’d flipped her old car
into the shrubby valley below
and escaped with only minor injuries,
which she credited to being drunk,
her body tumbling with the car.
She was doubly lucky, she said.
The tank had been almost empty.
Her hand lightly held the steering wheel.
Her eyes were glassy. I glanced
at the dashboard. The tank was full.