And now there is blood on my name
on my tree in Israel.
Do not speak to me of self-defense,
of necessity and nations and history.

Julia Vinograd, For My Tree In Israel

And blood on the name of America

For My Tree In Israel

There is blood on my tree,
on the tree with my name in Israel.
The tears of tear-gassed crowds water the roots,
and the tears of rage and the tears of grief for the dead.

Is this the tree I planted to bring forth life from the desert?
The broken bones of hands throwing rocks
and the rocks they threw pile around my tree,
the tree with my name in Israel.

It did not begin like this.
Everyone in my class planted a tree in Israel,
filled out a form and sent a letter
with our names.

I could’ve had pictures sent me of the tree
growing as I grew
but I didn’t want to know what it looked like.
The tree didn’t know what I looked like.

We shared a name, it was my name,
it was enough.
And now there is blood on my name
on my tree in Israel.

Do not speak to me of self-defense,
of necessity and nations and history.
There is no water in such words
and I need a glass of water before I sleep.

Do not explain,
it may be true but it doesn’t help,
it is not in the same language
in which my tree talks to the wind.

There must always be an Israel
because my tree is there
and they shall never come with axes
and cut down my name.

But there is blood on my tree and the smell of blood
and I want my name to be good again.
I want my good name to grow in Israel
and put out damp new leaves every spring,
as soft as kisses.