Red, alert
It was a long night in Israel:
The muezzin this night
more battle cry
than lullaby,
Teens’ songs turn to stale breath
when rushing to doorways and dank garages
near the hora-thronged shuk,
Young heads covered by shaking hands, hearts knocking.
Jerusalem cries after her party
and wonders how she can clean up this mess alone,
streets littered with flags and fear,
old hunger and hate and miracles.
Here, our safe spaces don’t protect against words
or cradle feelings;
They are thick-walled with crushing metal doors
and windows that
Seal
Shut
(floors scuffed with panic’s footprints and
shelves filled with card-decks and coloring books,
bottled water shoved next to weariness and resolve)
And there are not enough.
Boom for the bride and groom — earth shaking
by lush vineyards still in shock
from the surprise missile landing;
Barrages of booms for the sea-side sabras
playing sheshbesh on the faded Ashkelon boardwalk,
matches gone aflame;
Boom Flash Crash
for Sufa’s tired farmers, hands calloused and bronzed,
and Sderot’s school children, just finally back to school,
half-hearted masks round small stiff necks;
Now they can smell
the scent of summer mixed with Here We Go Again.
Nearby, the kalaniot of Shokeda were slumbering,
Lush poppy forest carpet
huddled under mottled drying earth
— startled awake mid dream;
Petal-ears covered tightly to protect again the booms
fetal curled into their cores, black velour
Red, Alert—
|Hoping to return to their dreaming
of the spring festivals where they were glad to be
crushed again by picnic baskets and
and lovers’ feet
after too many lonely bird chirps and bored cricket yawns
when everyone was away.
Sorry
Not sorry
if we don’t die enough to make you feel good,
like the fight was fair;
I don’t think you really want to talk about what’s fair
when it comes to us
and your slanted news
and your libels and pogroms and omissions
over the scroll of history—
My grandmother could tell you, but she’s not here;
I memorized her arm-etched number
— the one so like my expired driver’s license number
from the place where rockets
were only a thrill ride
or an exhibit
at a science museum.