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# Three Poems by Ada Gold
- URL: https://hyperallergic.com/three-poems-by-ada-gold/
- Published: 2016-03-30T11:01:32.000Z
- Updated: 2025-11-24T16:42:28.000Z
- Description: Our poetry editor, Joe Pan, has selected three poems by Ada Gold for his series that brings original poetry to the screens of Hyperallergic readers.
- Author: Joe Pan
- Tags: Poetry, Hyperallergic Poetry, #wp, #wp-post, #image-position-hidden, #Import 2025-11-24 07:17 (2016, 2017, part 1)

*Our poetry editor, Joe Pan, has selected three poems by Ada Gold for* [*his series*](http://hyperallergic.com/tag/hyperallergic-poetry/) *that brings original poetry to the screens of Hyperallergic readers.*

*\* \* \**

![Jacobson-Lines In My Eyes #260](https://storage.ghost.io/c/51/f8/51f871d8-b6be-4a73-b958-0ca4fff0110a/content/images/hyperallergic-newspack-s3-amazonaws-com/uploads/2016/03/jacobson-lines-in-my-eyes-260.jpg)

Bill Jacobson, “Lines In My Eyes #260” (2013), pigment print, 15 x 14 inches, edition of 7 (© Bill Jacobson, image courtesy Julie Saul Gallery, New York)

## Greasy Heaven

Dad, I never told you about the time I accidentally saw you peeing  
that was the day I realized men are nothing to worry about  
because penises really don’t have eyes  
I never told you that I went to synagogue and I never prayed  
I never prayed  
except for a mother  
and not just the ones we made  
that we fashioned out of paper clips and goodbye  
Dad, I never told you about the men  
or that when I danced  
I was dancing for my greasy heaven  
for floors so slick with our cries  
I thought we would slip until we flew

I never told you  
that every part of you that broke  
I carried in my throat  
you are every poem I spoke  
death did not interrupt the speaking just the breathing  
I never told you about the money I stole  
the quarters I took that were supposed to be just enough for pizza  
I made a dollar to buy a lottery ticket  
I could not tell you that you really should clip your fingernails more often  
that I hate the way you sing  
Dad, your body breeds bread  
keeps this underfed Brooklyn fed  
I never told you  
about the men I kissed  
or about how often I have heard you  
when you sat on the edge of your body and screamed and screamed for a new one

now your eyes have no moments  
Daddy, I’ll buy better lampshades  
I’ll get more windows  
we need more light  
in the dark things can burn, people can break  
I never told you about the day god sat down next to me on the train  
and didn’t introduce himself, tell me his name  
but that god was holding a bed frame  
and a bag of our dead  
to salt the skyline with

## The Poor Need Entertainment Too

we always entertained our death like it was a movie star coming to dinner  
and we think we need to dress up for it  
oh, the little things that we do to make the earth a little more red  
and more flushed with dreams we put in soil  
we cannot let the sky fall down, smack right in our corn and cobwebs,  
like “hey, we were learning how to read here”

the past is heavy with fat  
with bleeding the stars out of the flag

the deaths keep us company when nothing else would  
so let them rich kids have their chicken sandwiches with lots of lettuce  
their chamomile tea for getting to bed  
I’m tonguing the light through my shoes  
the darkness runs in our skim milk  
in our choking sardines out a can  
we dance with our demise  
and dress it up down to our underpants  
cause we want to get that prize  
that forever gown with flowers  
on the grave and a moonrise

## You Are The First Man

I’ve met  
whose father is still alive  
so let’s do it  
on the floor  
we don’t even need  
pillows  
or sunshine coming down through the curtains  
let’s do it  
on top of a mountain  
so close to the sky we can write notes  
to ourselves  
from God and  
hide them in each other’s pockets  
how about doing it in the bathroom closet  
next to the cough syrup and bottles of laxatives  
cause indigestion in each other  
you are that man

to uproot my lungs make me leaky spine  
and sweating  
I’m afraid you will inherit my frequent disapproval  
of the earth  
my  
casual way of kissing and cursing out the stars  
but perhaps  
I will just fall  
lopsided into your skin  
as you undress my blood  
a body is made more than just for mourning

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Ana Gold is a poet from Brooklyn, New York. She has been published under the name Ada Gold and other pseudonyms in *The Ohio Edit*, *Pilgrimage*, *Punchnel’s*, and *The Illanot Review*. She has received grants to attend the Juniper Writing Institute and the Sarah Lawrence Summer Writing Seminars.