At first, this was the promised land.
Since then we need protectors.
And so we live with walls and checkpoints,
bomb shelters and metal detectors.

It’s true, it’s not the calmest land.
They check our bags for bombs,
and walls (of some effectiveness)
are built among the palms.

And when the walls are everywhere,
the coop shut up with locks,
we sleep like nervous chickens
at the mercy of the fox.

It’s more like a pogromist land.
Pursued with knife and gun,
we try to grab some milk and honey
and eat them on the run.

Around us is Islamist land,
our neighbors spewing forth
grad missiles on Sderot, Ashdod,
Katyushas on the north.

Some think this is the balmiest land
the winters are so short.
And yet the deadly hail continues,
with more in the weather report.

Each rocket, missile, bomb must land
as gravity is true—
more true than experts telling us
they’d stop when we withdrew.

Withdrew, and disengaged, and fled.
Our children go to school
protected by the government
and a security guard on a stool.

Take heart, this is the Psalmist’s land.
Lift up your heads, O gates,
Ye everlasting doors! he wrote.
The meaning resonates.

For this is still the promised land,
and here’s a bit of proof.
I promise: gates and doors will stand
while they destroy the roof.

March 5, 2008