Kyke Dyke

Kyke Dyke by Sarah Young - Photo by Aliza Abusch-Magder

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 hate being called that,
I heard the snickers as I walked down the halls.
People would whisper
“Kyke dyke”
Like I couldn’t hear them,
Like it didn’t matter if I did.
And then I looked to the Jewish community,
And I found Keshet.
I found other queer Jews,
Like the table of fearless queer hipsters at KlezKanada.
I even met other kyke dykes:
who I work with on the newspaper,
And who always knows just what to say.
Whose voice is always raised
For those who cannot defend themselves.
Who I choose to spend my time with,
And love,
And so many others.
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.
A term of endearment,
Because we were created by God as we are:
Holy kyke dykes.

Accompanying Photo: “Untitled” By Aliza Abusch-Magder
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