We are bad feminists we only watch the men. Fumble around lemons into space. The seam of sweat, the seem sweet, something rises. In a garden state I follow the steam. It glistens. Prostrately flaccid but the edges sticking, slipping, slick slicing. A wholesome clock resets me. We discuss history she laughs easily. Women invented the overarm ball did you know because their hoop skirts interfered with other under arms. Score creeps we keep it calm my panicking lung rests falsely. Urgent pressures of invisible organs. Rise. Slow seaming washer flutters a leather box crashes. Rising. Never a wider container. A chime. A shudder. Roses all around. Never has air bounced such a wall. I’d call it red but it is an insufficient lawn flattened. We are good feminists we only watch the men. Make objects of their skin spin. There is no smell. But their glistening sways us. Slow motion lozenges drum our ears. We sink slit in tender repose.