the blood of a poet

turns towards the glitter

shouts you know what

new york city you are fucking welcome

even if almost everybody moves on

won’t be left lonely

the blood of a poet

gurgles snow from the streets

even while elegant

dinner parties abide

goes to work

new york city

covered in bells

the blood of a poet

under the tutelage

of a dominatrix

new york city

the blood of a poet

the saddest voice

on the train

is singing stand by me

and I’m throwing my hat

oh my god I will

straight into the air

my nature

she’s just obsessed

with smells

permission

to feel

excited

blunt

splendor

bashing

the temple

where she is

leading me

F train

F train, I’ve had this

dream of a cathedral a

part of my spirit

is vaulted ceilings;

it’s very orderly and

also very free.

Inside of that, there’s

a little synagogue with

hares leaping, painted

on its ceilings and

inside of that, I have my

own small theater

where I take people

who I love or they take me

there, sometimes crying.

I might call this dream:

the way that I live inside

civilization.

F train, I dreamt of

an architecture of great

catharsis! F train,

my head on your chest!

That is catharsis that won’t

stop! All I can think

about is how I

brought a stage light into you!

And then you kissed me!

In Brooklyn

I could share paradise

Los Angeles has never ever been as pink

I behave in a Lilith manner

but I would banish all harm from your life

with amulets that work

I wish to rewrite Fiddler on the Roof

so Tevya’s daughters aren’t apart any more

so we don’t have to be apart any more

This is the only topic for ballads

you converting away

So many rooftops we could see three stars on

in New York City

You remind me of serotonin

You remind me of baths where I can develop like photography

At the time, I did not have any art in my loft

besides one circle on a wall dedicated

to my dreams

You were so funny

You said I like this piece you have here

This activates the whole space

Jewish LA

The house is rubble!

Even Moshe had

to die.

My body wishes

she could live long as stones.

I dry off

on concrete by my pool.

I want you to find

my grandma’s red hibiscus

on the side yard.

I plant

sage bush and get

pregnant.

Lizzy Golda lives in Brooklyn. Her poems have appeared in Prelude, Posit, No, Dear and elsewhere