by Maryann Corbett

It's got to be here. Where I had it last.
The sense that things would work. That, settled down
into the nursing chair, the dumb-beast body
would bend to the task, the milk let down to soak
the nightgown front, the baby's wet gums O-ringed
fast to the nipple in that ecstatic hold
that bit by bit lets up, the fist uncurling
to sleep, slack as a sandbag, warm on the shoulder—
held a minute, before the handing down
into the crib. That under the sleeping breath
the round of prayer would run wordlessly on
making God happy. That storms, colic, and winter
would end. That no one really wished us ill.

by Maryann Corbett



About the Author

Maryann Corbett grew up in northern Virginia. She holds a doctorate in English from the University of Minnesota and has worked for 25 years as an editor, indexer, and in-house writing teacher for the Minnesota Legislature. Her poems have
appeared or are forthcoming in Measure, Alabama Literary Review, First Things, The Lyric, The Raintown Review, The Barefoot Muse, and other journals. She serves as a moderator on Eratosphere, an online forum for metrical poetry. She and her husband live in Saint Paul, Minnesota.


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