This is a poem called "The Promised Land."
I guess, the two countries that I expect a lot out of
are two countries that are founded
according to principles.
America being one which has a very idealistic founding
documents.
And Israel being the other and I'm involved in that.
My mother has been an ardent Zionist.
And we've had all kinds of arguments over the years.
And this comes out of that.
The difference between the actual country and the country,
the ideal country.
The Promised Land.
The land of Israel my mother loves
gets by without the luxury of existence
and still wins followers.
Though it can't be found on the map West of Jordan or South
of Lebanon.
Though what can be found bears the same name,
making for confusion.
Not the land I fought her about for years
but the one untarnished by the smoke of history.
Where no one informs the people of Hebron or Jericho
they're squatting on property that isn't theirs.
Or every settler can remember wandering.
The dinners I spoil with shouting could have been saved.
Both of us lingering quietly in our chairs.
If I guess the truth that now is obvious
that she wasn't lavishing all her love on the country
that doesn't deserve so rich a gift.
But on the one that does.
The one not there.
Convinced supplies could reach its borders.
Convinced they might be crossing even now
into the land of the righteous and merciful
that the prophet spoke of in their hopeful moods.
That was loved by the red eyed rabbis of Galicia who
studied every word of the Book and prayed
to get one thread of the meaning right.
The promised land where the great and small hurry to school
and the wise are waiting.