I lie beneath you,
a wet corpse.
The cross around your neck
grazes my forehead,
cold as November on an open sore.
Third eye full of
fever and water.


In flannel and Visine I
follow you into the woods,
want a drink from your flask but you
won’t share until we get to the creek, 

believe I’ve been outside all day.
You can smell it on me. 

I smell myself on the air you breathe out.

I bit my tongue in my sleep.
The whiskey goes to the wound.


From a juniper you
pluck a syringe of necrosis,
nod out on the forest tides.

I walk back alone.

What have I done to my life?



A stick in the unlocked door, its groan as
old as I feel. 
I want to read your cards but
our deck is incomplete.
There is tea.

An oak branch beats the window,
competes with steam from the kettle,
a signal.



I hang red curtains and
turn on the lamp but
don’t stay.
Instead, I sit outside and
watch the warm red rise in the night.

It’s not as late as it seems.


Before bed you
cough without covering your mouth.
I braid my hair.
We don’t look at each other.

I could become a burnt church
a white animal
a rippled pane of glass: something beyond.

You’re asleep before I’m under the covers.
I knew you’d never see me happy. 

Liz Worth is the author of six books, including Treat Me Like Dirt: An Oral History of Punk in Toronto and Beyond,  No Work Finished Here: Rewriting Andy Warhol, and The Truth is Told Better This Way. She is also a tarot reader and astrologer, and is currently based in Toronto.