Next Time They Bomb Gaza


let’s catch for ourselves the foxes that spoil the harvest,
then tie their tails together two-by-two til the time
comes to light them ablaze and let them loose,
when the fields are ripe enough
for the necks of the grains to snap from the weight.

And we will scurry;
and we will carry out to the letter
what was spoken by the mouth of our leader,
who lurks six-fingered, six-toed, six-tongued,
the last of the Anakim army,
beneath a sheltered outcropping.

You know what’s creeping out now?
What’s trying men’s souls this time around?
All the foxes are gone,
like the sea retreating deep beneath the covers.
All the foxes are subliminal now,
sneaking about in the shadows that lie
and tell you what you wanted to hear.

Under the surface, lovers who dream of revolution
turn foxes into torches and tails into tethers;
and, inaudible at first, the flaming tsunami filters up
through the pores of the edges of the fields,
licking and billowing and cracking open
the fruits of the harvest of repressed desire.