Osmosis

(as if that could contain her). Not a toy, Okaasan said. Kiyohime: who thrilled in my imagination when she danced—six hats cascading from her hand transforming from silk and gold brocade to scales that snaked around flirtations when I pillowed dragon’s fire when I painted face in oyster shell becoming ghastly when monked by stupid

She’s in her own little world, says one man to the other, as I walk by their front porch where they sit and drink beer with the front door wide open. Actually, I’m harvesting encounters: tiger lilies planted by a driveway, a bursting snowball bush, the curious way one tree’s branch turned ninety degrees to

For Laura Henriksen & the Secret Feminist Book Club Months after Fiona Apple’s voice fills my apartment every day for weeks, I find one of her lines straying repeatedly into my head. I too used to want him to be proud of me / And then I just wanted him to make amends. It’s a