he liked her too much that’s what mother told me though she never said what too much meant simply that she hated how his sweaters reeked of mothballs how his mustache prickled how he whispered darling little girl but I wonder why she needed pills to sleep and pills to smile why she was never thin enough why her hands were never clean enough or why she couldn’t say I love you even when I asked

crushed velvet
the tiny key
in a jewelry box

—First published in Modern Haiku (Volume 48.2, Summer 2017) and reprinted in the author’s second book, Shades of Absence; appears here with her permission

Bio: Harriot West