I Will Not Write of War

only of Tamar’s glorious locks

flushing towards Nadav—

palms

throbbing for the clutch.

Security is less intense today.

The guard throws back his head

to catch a stroke of sun. 

Across the border,

two dates nestle

inside a cracked metallic bowl

lined in red enamel—

a firing away

of strange fruit

dementing the branches.

National

The sapphire-stained star earrings

became a gleaming skirt in which

I pranced around town, pursing thick

Semitic lips, popping my head out

each open window, shouting

my motto: PLEASE, as in

TO PLEASE, hushing the violence

inside me.  It was war I needed

to make real the possibility of heroism.

But in the United States I kept choosing

methods of dilution.  I learned

to cook, clean and mediate.  I tamed

my flame with yoga and trust built from

the kindness in my eyes.  My heart

was something else altogether.