I yelled at my mothertonight. She askedwhy she couldn'thear what I hadwritten. Is it
about me?she asked.
No,no,my stupid lying lipsyelled at her,at her kind voice,at her wrinkling face.
In playing out my darkscenarios I had written hersick body intobutterflies,
into fireflies. I made her intothings with wings.
I could not tell herin her now well bodythat she had been written [End Page 110] into a glass cage,placed there with metalinstruments, with my shakinglittle hands. I pinned herwith a tag, her name.I hung her dead on the wall. [End Page 111]
Lia Greenwell is a third year student at Michigan State University majoring in English and Arts & Humanities. She has worked in The Center for Poetry at MSU for the last three years. This is her first publication.