Lizzy Golda

Stone House

A gnarly thorn bush,
like a giant yarn ball filled
up the breakfast nook,
and there was no roof,
no roof at all, covering
any of the rooms.
An abandoned place.
That’s technically what this was.
No one likes to be
abandoned but we enjoy
escaping problems.
Happy as I am,
when adrenaline touches
me between the eyes,
I’m riding a horse
so giddy she thrills to throw
me like winds throw rain.


Come to me wearing
indigo with redwood seeds
tucked inside your hair.

My double the storm
approaches you with violets
and flooded houses.

Your double the drought
is ecstatic, electric
on the laguna.

A man strips himself
down in your outdoor shower,
just to be near you.

All the little seeds
of every fruit and flower
are inside of us.

When you rise, your hips
are golden and substantial
like the headland slopes.
When you touch my heart,
I am a tomato plant.
Your hands are the earth.

We won’t ever die,
I laugh with you, with my tongue
curled around a star.

My Face’s Real Shapes

Velvet, lavender
with gemstones, purple, plastic,
sprinkled on top and
pink freesias preserved
in hour glass shaped vases
and magenta lights.
An r&b song,
wistful and graceful repeats
in the other room.

I want the angel to get
close and kiss me,
when the earth’s fuming,
a calendula orange
like skies after fire.
A best friend touches my hair,
a keyhole between
my breasts in a night dress is
my world in order.

I just want my friends to see
my face’s real shapes.
Watching a movie about
a house from heaven,
with a chartreuse four poster
that needs repairing.
When the woman wipes away
the dust of years past,
the faces of goddesses
appear, like our mom,
exactly when we need her.
My eyelids rest: hammocks
between two small apple trees.
Vineyards like a mote.

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.

Lizzy Golda has published poems in Prelude, No, Dear, Luna Luna and elsewhere. She was a graduate teaching fellow at CUNY Queens College. She lives in Brooklyn and teaches at a high school and a synagogue.
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About Posit Editor

Susan Lewis ( is the Editor-in-chief and founder of Posit ( and the author of ten books and chapbooks, including Zoom (winner of the Washington Prize), Heisenberg's Salon, This Visit, and State of the Union. Her poetry has appeared in anthologies such as Walkers in the City (Rain Taxi), They Said (Black Lawrence Press), and Resist Much, Obey Little (Dispatches/Spuyten Duyvil), as well as in journals such as Agni, Boston Review, The Brooklyn Rail, Conjunctions online, Diode, Interim, New American Writing, and VOLT.