A Hate Affair

There is no love lost
between you and me.
Our relationship is quite
like an Arab-Israeli affair.
You are of course Israeli,
invading my heart at will,
driving me wild, bombing
out my shelters with wanton
womanly fury. I am Arab,
wild-eyed, passionate,
aggrieved, vengeful, impotent.
They have a word for it, the Arabs,
for your tumultous appearance
in my tranquil life in my
father's olive garden.
They call it Al Naqbe:
The Catastrophe! For that is
what you will always mean to me.
The first time you left me,
You clearly had your victory;
unequal, ravishing, quick,
and then somehow you wanted
to come back: you said
you needed me. What for
but to vanquish me yet again.
Only this time I was ready
and I gave you hell for a while.
My private Yom Kippur War,
and some measure of closure.