We sit across the table
in desolate Tel Aviv
hushed
under the swollen canopy of paranoia,
after another day
tired of intensity
or intensely tired.
The enchanting greenness
of your eyes like olives
soak in the ferment of tears.
Behind me
a lamppost shadow
superimposes the freckles
on your cheeks fallen and older with softness.
White hands,
long fingers conducting requisites
lapse in mid-air,
fold wilted around a ceramic mug
in search for warmth
as if the sweltering night could not calm your shudder.
I don’t want to have children, you say,
not in this country.
I don’t want to breed fighters
not in this life.
They kill our soldiers,
we kill their soldiers
they kill our babies,
we kill their babies
and then we say:
oh, my god.
and then we say:
oh, my god…”