The Zionist girl sat legs crossed
waiting for a blood test at the campus infirmary
and talked about her holy land

“Every Jew should make aliyah”
she said as her hands animated the air
two hawks slicing up space with delicate talons

“We made the desert bloom”
as if without divine intervention
life in that climate was impossible

In the flush of her cheeks
the Zionist girl intoned the holy name
of the settlement she left behind

a duty to history and the betrayal she felt that
her audience was indifferent
to her version of it

“We have a right to our homeland”
bracketed by olive groves
and ubiquitous gunmetal

The seductive force of her entitlement
and the way her lips shifted
between smile and scowl

her dark gloss of hair
like a postcard sabra from the seventies
almost justified the occupation

But I had already heard too much of God
and the promised land
and so conceived my own intifada