New Jersey 25, or Israel/Hamas/Palestine/United States/United Nations/etc

These aren't really poems, but you can treat them like poems if you want. However, anything you have to say on the war, Israel, Golda Meir, whatever, don't hold back. That's what the comments are for.

Far From Holy Lands, 2008/2009/5769/1430

1.
"When peace comes we will perhaps in time be able to forgive the Arabs for killing our sons, but it will be harder for us to forgive them for having forced us to kill their sons." Golda Meir (Press conference after the Six-Day War, 1967)

Dear Golda,
I’ve been hiding from the news again.
It takes me a few days to recognize my subconscious hibernation,
not until the death count skyrockets between the days I check the paper.
In part, it’s because I don’t know what to do anymore.
Israel is at war again. Like this is news.
By now, public opinions are sunk deeper than ink into newspaper,
I barely visit mine, the way I can look at scars
without thinking about the injuries that caused them.

2.
When they ask,
"Well, have you been to Israel?"
I want to say
"Well, have you been to Tibet? Darfur? Afghanistan? Guantanamo? I am sure they have flowers too."
I am learning to say "Yes." without elaboration.
Does it count, I wonder,
if I was only young enough to notice the sidewalks?

3.
When peace comes, Golda, what will you look for?
Will it look like piles of dirt-patched bodies,
tank tracks in the muddy sand next to anthills of charred houses?
Some of us talk about peace like a god that refuses
to intervene on anyone’s behalf.

Peace, when you come, introduce yourself like this:
Ya Allah, Matha fa'alna?
מה עשינו יי?
My G-d, What have we done?

4.
Dear Israel,
When my friends can’t speak of your deeds,
they speak of your beauty.
Cobalt sea gracing
your neckline like melting jewels,
Jerusalem turning gold in the sunset like a wedding band,
blood-burst flowers blooming along the Carmel in the spring,
you wear sandstorms like a veil.
In every war, there must be a princess at stake.

5.
Dear Golda,
in this world of bombs and newspaper,
there are still olives
and clementines.
Trees do not stop feeding the hungry in times of war.
When peace comes, will you have enough left to offer it a meal?

6.
Dear Israel,
I am sick of your explosions, your targets, your anthem,
of defending you to lovers and friends,
of my family's justifications, and their silence.
I do not want to have an opinion about you anymore.

Here.
Take my right hand.

Take my mouth,
take my eyes,
take whatever you need, but leave me
in peace.