by Constance Hansen
I have abandoned the desire to learn the name of the woman floating in my childhood bathtub. The first time I asked, she stepped out of her polka dot dress and into a cloak of clamshells and kelp. The second time, she just stood there dripping saltwater on the bathmat. The third time, her index finger rose to her lips in warning gesture. I ran into my brother’s room to swipe a soft pack of Marlboro Reds in offering, but when I returned, she was gone. I wonder after her no more or less often than cathedral pigeons shitting down a fractal staircase marvel at the vanishing miracle of math. ____
Constance Hansen is an editorial assistant at Poetry Northwest. Her poetry has appeared or is forthcoming at Harvard Review Online and EcoTheo Review. She was a finalist for the 2021 Fugue Poetry Contest. Constance holds degrees from Middlebury College (BA Religion), The University of Washington (MFA Poetry), and Seattle University (Masters in Teaching). She lives in Seattle with her partner and young daughters.