make love not war

I call you once early on, sometime while you’re in Israel. And I find you’re with your friends, that I’m on speaker meeting the friends, your beautiful friends. 

And afterwards I wonder if someone brings it up—So what does she think of the war? Knowing well that Americans call it genocide. 

And I imagine you’ll say you haven’t asked what I think, but you intuit the same as them. “She’s very liberal,” you explain, but in Hebrew. 

And then you tell them about the time I asked if you think it’s (at least) an occupation. I’m waning in 10 minutes of yes, but…. We should just give the land back to Jordan. (that obliterated land). 

And when you finish your statement your tension is high, heated—as you meant it, felt it, like it came from the core. 

And by the while I’m thinking about how sexy your accent is, how impressed I am that he’s so articulate in his second language, & so passionate. Then I give you the best head you’ve ever had; mind-blowing, soul-sucking head. 

And the next day I tell you it turns me on to make you angry. And you tell them you told me I can make you as angry as I like, so long as I take care of it afterwards.  

And I wonder if that tension settles 
a little bit less now in your bones