By Libby Maxey
Glad enough I was to know that I
Was not a story yet, a shrunken piece
Of desiccated fruit to rattle from
A jar when you were entertaining. Why
I did not see your ravenous caprice
Consuming me, I do not know. With some
Detachment, truth: much better to be told
And savored thus than to be nothing. Hold
Me any way you must.
Libby Maxey has a master’s degree in Medieval Studies and works as a freelance editor. She is part of the staff at the online journal Literary Mama, which has also published her poetry. Other work has appeared in the Mom Egg Review, Brain of Forgetting, and Off the Coast.