I.
There’s a club in Tel Aviv
near the dolphinarium.
I know almost nothing
about it— except one
thing— about a decade
ago, twenty-one teenagers
died, when a man I know
even less about decided
that ending their lives
was worth his own.

There’s a new sign
on the entrance.
It says—
lo nafsik likrod—
We will not stop dancing.

II.

I was in a bomb shelter when I found out that Osama Bin Laden had died.

Six tired twenty-year-olds
Crowded under a staircase.
“Maybe this is revenge,”
a Canadian offered.
The “for what” had happened
while we were asleep.

It wasn’t until I got dressed,
prepared for an understanding
of why I was late to work

that I remembered I had been
woken up for Memorial Day.

III.

The Florentine district
is known to some as the seedy
section of Tel Aviv.

No one told me before
I followed a relative
stranger deeper into
the narrowing, graffiti-walled
labyrinth.

I knew nothing of old
suicide bombings
when I was engulfed by
the dancehall floor.

The beat moved from
the speakers, through
the floor, forced
my feet off the ground
and you know at that
moment, that you
will not stop
cannot—