Kyke dyke.
That’s what they used to call me.
So funny,
Watch me laugh.
I see the appeal.
It’s short,
It’s catchy,
It rhymes.
But I’m a poet now,
And I know that things don’t have to rhyme,
And that sometimes when they do,
They’re tacky.
Or forced.
I used to hear snickers
as I walked down the halls.
People would whisper
“Kyke dyke”
Like I couldn’t hear them,
Like it wouldn’t matter if I did.
And then I looked to the Jewish community,
And I found Keshet.
I found other queer Jews,
Like the fearless queer hipsters at KlezKanada.
I even met other kyke dykes:
Yona,
who I worked with on the newspaper,
And who always knows just what to say.
Alyx,
Whose voice is always raised
For those who cannot defend themselves.
Rachel,
An incredible friend
And wonderful person.
I saw the beauty
In being a Jewish lesbian,
In finding love
With a strong Jewish woman,
The product of thousands of years of oppression and resurgence.
I saw the beauty
In knowing that God wants us to be happy
With each other.
Kyke dyke became a battle cry,
Something I call myself.
Something my friends and I are proud to call each other.
We were created by God as we are:
Holy kyke dykes.
Accompanying Photo: “Untitled” By Aliza Abusch-Magder
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