by Leia K. Bradley Emily Morter Georgine, maybe it’s monetary — my insecurities on dating the fairer of the dyke genders, the softer one, femme for femme for ephemeral, for efflorescent, for lace and silk and lately I’m dreaming in doppelgangers, I’m a question mark in stilettos staring at question marks in platform boots I am muse and fury, furious at myself, fearful of mouthing truths my body can’t bear. Is it enough to drink a bottle of orange wine in pink sheets, is it en