Issue 8

Poetry

Kathleen McGookey

Folk Tale


I stole the newborn from next door. Then I gobbled him right
up, teeny fingernails and all. He curled and shrank inside me,
glad for a place like home. His parents, though distraught,
soon sank into sleep on the couch, lights still on. Outside their
window, I watched them breathe. I watched the moonlight
pool in their yard. I wanted to tuck a quilt under their chins:
they just needed rest. Though I wouldn’t show for weeks, I
hoped in nine months they might do the same for me.