November 19, 2015 / Creative Writing
A woman wrestles with how post-traumatic stress disorder affects her daily life and faith.
July 16, 2012
like a weaned child is my soul within me
No, my soul is like my infant grandson,
left alone with me one bleak hour.
Here, hungry baby, suck on my finger
’til your mommy gets home.
Harder and harder he worked,
then drilled dark eyes into mine.
Six weeks—old enough to reckon
there’s no such thing as weaned.
Maryanne Hannan has published other poems from this series in Christianity and Literature, Christian Century, Clare, and Anglican Theological Review. She is a contributing editor at Cerise Press: Journal of Literature, Arts and Culture.