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About this poet

Geffrey Davis is the author of Night Angler, winner of the 2018 James Laughlin Award and forthcoming from BOA Editions in 2019, and Revising the Storm (BOA Editions, 2014), which received the 2013 A. Poulin, Jr. Poetry Prize. His other honors include the Anne Halley Poetry Prize, the Dogwood Prize in Poetry, the Leonard Steinberg Memorial/Academy of American Poets Prize, and the Wabash Prize for Poetry, as well as fellowships from Cave Canem, the National Endowment for the Arts, and Penn State's Institute for the Arts and Humanities. He teaches at the University of Arkansas and The Rainier Writing Workshop and lives in Fayetteville, Arkansas.

Prayer with Miscarriage / Grant Us the Ruined Grounds

Dear Boy: It is true: You took two tries
to get here—for your mother and me
to calyx together a body bold
enough to carry the grace of you. Amen.
So forgive us if we still bow inside
the garden of your miscarried becoming—:

grant us the ruined grounds of the first prayer
fiercer than our cleaved breathing. How could we
rush to rinse the word loss from our de-parented mouths?
Remember this: we surrendered a new name
for everything to the tender hour at our chest.
Nothing blooms in the old field of maybe. No sound

flowers above please. But we endure what’s not delivered
from the impressions planted by our knees. Amen.

From The Night Angler. Copyright © 2018 by Geffrey Davis. Used with the permission of BOA Editions. 

From The Night Angler. Copyright © 2018 by Geffrey Davis. Used with the permission of BOA Editions. 

Geffrey Davis

Geffrey Davis

Geffrey Davis is the author of Night Angler, winner of the 2018 James Laughlin Award and forthcoming from BOA Editions in 2019. He lives in Fayetteville, Arkansas.

by this poet

poem

           And it came to pass, […] there appeared a chariot of fire
           and horses of fire, and parted them both asunder; and Elijah
          
went up by a whirlwind into heaven. And Elisha saw it,
           and he cried, My father, my

2
poem

Dear Boy: Be the muscle,
make music to the bone—risk

that mercurial measure
of contact. There are those

who touch a body and leave it
graceful:      be that kind

of wonder in the dark.      And if I ever
catch you confusing

a pulse for a path      or a bridge
to beat

poem

—at The Giant Heart, The Franklin Institute (Philadelphia, PA)


Today the boy won’t rest long enough
for me to burn a single metaphor
back to whether precision or

prayer leavens the language I need
cast into the well of our survival. And then
the boy urges my turn to

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