[“I gave birth to a spooky child”]

I gave birth to a spooky child.
The pattern of his bones. Jack o'lantern grin.
He thinks all stories begin, Once again…
instead of once upon a time.

When I was young: a Rainbow Brite doll.
A pink bike with a plastic basket. Pink
glasses and a moral compass crafted
by the babysitters’ club.

But he, even drooling through
his bib, he was a ghoul. At birth,
his little hand grasped at the surgeon’s
scalpel. What a picture: yanked out

and hovering above
his mother’s gaping abdomen
while the room laughs and laughs:
The little rascal!

What could have prepared me?

The horse-girls in my books never said
I am bones in the grass and graves!
like he did this morning, roller skating
naked around the living room. But at least

his joy means that I am not
the father in those old, old stories:
Once again, they all begin, the father
said to his son, come here, child

and I shall teach you to shudder.

---

Colleen Abel is a disabled writer living in the Midwest. Her work has appeared in venues such as such as Lit Hub, Cincinnati Review, The Southern Review, Colorado Review, Pleiades, and elsewhere. Her first poetry collection, Remake, won the 2015 Editors Prize from Unicorn Press. She has two chapbooks, Housewifery and Deviants, a hybrid work that won Sundress Publications' 2016 Chapbook Prize. She has been awarded fellowships from UW-Madison and the Tulsa Artist Fellowship. She is the Poetry Editor of Bluestem magazine.