November 23, 2015 / Creative Writing
A young girl tries to escape a grief-stricken home only to find that home is where her she is known most fully.
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.