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Security
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
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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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