I was raised by surrogates: nursemaids, nannies. Some nicer than others. Especially Margrit. Together we painted flowers on china saucers. Mother, to her credit, kept them all; she told me I was wonderful and talented doing things she never dreamt of. But it was Margrit who drew a sun with iodine on my bloodied elbow as my mother watched.

	camellia blossoms
		floating
			in a shallow Stueben bowl

—Previously appears in Into the Light, a collection of haibun and haiku (Mountains and Rivers Press, 2014) which tied for first place in the 2015 Haiku Society of America’s Mildred Kanterman Book Awards; republished here by permissions from author and publisher

Bio: Harriot West