Praha 39, or Poem Draft

The Grass is Always Green in Israel
rough draft

This morning on my walk to school, I paused to notice
something small. On the side of the three-lane highway,
a dandelion was crawling up the concrete barrier,
like a daisy resting in the end of a gun barrel, and I smiled.

I grinned because the sun was out for the third
day in a row, and although the noise from the traffic
drowned out the birds, I swore I could almost hear them
singing, and I put my lips together to join them in a whistle
because as far as I’ve heard,
birds never sing with words.
They’re an endless niggun,
a wordless melody to greet the rising sun.

And I may be a crazy kind of Jew,
but I think G-d for bird nigguns
because if birds could sing words
they’d eventually offend someone,
who might try to grab a shotgun,
try to bring down every singing bird, every laughing, mocking bird
that so offended him, and you might think
that’s unusual, or cruel,

but take a moment to notice that when I read your letter,
I wanted to go look for a shotgun.
But if I wanted to silence you for offending me,
I’d have to take a four-hour plane ride first,
and as that plane was landing, I’d have to see
the white beaches of Tel Aviv, and listen to the plane burst out in Hatikvah,
and then I’d have to put my gun down.

You see, Israel is my long-distance lover
who’s been cheating on my politics for six or seven years,
but the walk up the Carmel and the sounds of the shuk are like the flowers
and teddy bears that are almost enough
to make me forgive this country I love with so much hurt
it feels like the end of a rile leaving the imprint of a circle
burned onto my heart.

And Sara, you said the grass is always green
in Israel, that people are always proud in Israel,
heads high, backs straight, people fighting to survive
instead of going meekly to the slaughter.
But what does perpetually green grass mean
other than there’s pesticides beneath them,
and I ask you to trace the curve of the bent back
of a mother whose daughter died as collateral damage
in a battle they won’t ever call war; at least here, the Jews
are resting peacefully, especially the ones who fought back
against the Nazis, fought back against the Hapsburgs, fought back
because they had pride too, but you don’t know that.

You know the straight backs and strong faces
and the life of Socialist farmers who thought
they could plant freedom in the sand, but no prophet could’ve said
that their seeds would grow into spiraling weeds,
thorny and defensive, and impossibly snarled. Because Jews know
that freedom isn’t real unless it applies to everyone, and Jews know
that at least once a year you should try to think of those who are still enslaved, and Jews
should know that it’s not worth it to have green grass always,
if it means you need to keep dumping pesticides, because Sara,
if I’ve learned one thing living near a busy highway
it’s how to find joy in the dandelions.