Away from the reindeer and the tinsel
Jewish singles congregate
searching for that elusive Other.
And the faith is incidental to most of the secular Jews
who are looking for old-fashioned love
with all the trimmings.
Brimming with earnest hope
and cynical voices,
no, I never come to this sort of event—never.
This last, of course, said behind artfully painted red lips,
poised demurely, meeting a coffee cup, still smiling.
We’re in group denial; we are here, but we aren’t really here.
My friend dragged me along, didn’t tell me what it was.
Though it’s obvious we are all hungry,
we’ll die before we admit it.
If life were a perpetual single’s buffet, I’d throw up from the indecency of
all that misplaced desire.
Inside of a fortress of insecurity we keep on smiling,
I never want to pack myself in leather again, provoking the shy with my cleavage.
I never want to expose myself to all that taut misery again,
hope contracted so tight
you can hear it snap when it breaks.