my nature


she’s just obsessed
with smells

permission
to feel
excited

blunt
splendor
bashing

the temple
where she is
leading me

The Dybbuk


I’m a Yiddish play

full of music no one knows

in a dead language.

Our language—it died.

They thought we were so ugly.

They still think we’re rich.

Pomegranate seeds

fall out of black gauche handbags,

into shallow graves.

Now I’m just flopping

around on top of your grave

because I’m earthquakes.

Silver candlesticks:

two double souls on Shabbat.

That was you and me.

My body shimmered

like heat on a summer road.

Then I was thin air.

Alfred Hitchcock


A birthday party 

ruined by seagull attacks.

The world is like that.

You just want to eat

sheet cake to celebrate time

with your little friends,

but someone will not

ever be the same because

birds pecked their eyes out.

Now we’re a couple:

placing suit coats over fresh

slain bodies of friends,

then taking cover 

inside my green Drophead coupe

before we are gored. 

Fine enough to fight 

off birds invading our home 

through the fireplace. 

Lizzy Golda lives in Brooklyn. Her work has appeared in Posit, Hot Pink Magazine, Prelude, and elsewhere. In the past, she has managed programs at Bowery Poetry and adjuncted at CUNY.