My son is in front of the TV
Watching American cartoons
About a good man with a rifle,
A bit slow but committed,
Trying to destroy an enemy
Who taunts and confounds him.
I sit at the dining room table,
Testing the charges, packing
In the rat poison and screws,
Hearing him laughing at
The Zionist propaganda,
Sympathizing with the prey
Instead of the hunter.
I know better. In those cartoons
Is the fate of our people:
1967 all over again
Each time the hunter sticks his gun
Down a hole and it comes up
Behind him, and shoots him
Right in the ass.
The device is ready. I stand up and
Press it to my waist to measure.
Small, much too small--but then
It wasn't made for me to wear, was it?
I call my son over and try to explain
In terms he can understand. He starts
Crying and screaming, but I know
What to say to him now, I know
How to calm him now, and as I
Lean in to tighten the belt 'round
His tiny waist and press the bus
Schedule into his tiny hands, I whisper
To him the words that will change
His political sympathies in a heartbeat:
"Be vewy, vewy quiet. You're hunting wabbits."