{I'm thinking of a new series, a companion to "lies about"}

dream about third-wave feminism

there’s no daughter here, only men
dead between floorboard of the upstairs
and ceiling of the down, the moth
put them there. still, we don’t leave.
not us, not the women on the couch
and the women behind, we can’t
lay down, it’s clear. something
to stand on: something obvious:
it’s love, you know, a kind of
obligation to the world or the one
inside, spinning, the doors
are unlocked but we stay. waiting
for our turn to sleep.

*