Geffrey Davis
4 poems
BECAUSE I STAYED UP ALL NIGHT TO WRITE YOU ABOUT THE Wounded World
Here’s a brief, morning report on the wild—all Lazarus species that have returned from their own vanishing:
…the harlequin frog, a night parrot, a big-eared bat, the flightless swamphen, the false killer whale, a venomous mammal, a deepwater snail, the gladfly petrel with its eerie cry, the Cross River gorilla, a rock rat, a mountain pygmy possum, a horned marsupial amphibian, the bush dog, the terror skink, the coelacanth, the midwife toad, Fender’s blue butterfly, the pelican spider, a nocturnal ant, the nightcap oak, the dawn redwood.
THERE’S OFTEN A MUSIC IN MY HEAD
I wasn’t always this kind of tree, the grass’s
Obscene greenness advancing on my shadow,
Covering then laying things bare with the seasons,
A thin secrecy over the source, slight quiver
Inside all this longing. I didn’t use to
Believe myself, in time, holding up the sun.
And this was after I’d spent a million dry breaths
Wishing against the low yearn of roots.
But then the birds—hideous until
I knew they, too, were a light my life would be
Smaller without. An irregular singing.
CHAMBER: ON THE ROW
In April of 2017, the state of Arkansas executed four of its death row inmates. It had been more than a decade since the last Arkansan was put to death—and over 15 years since any state had carried out more than one execution in a single day.
The immensity of their absence is listening
At the end of this—a new dark forever,
What the rawness of our wounds festered
To call justice. But the future will know
Our faces sunken by the foul lights we lapped
From death’s nervous mouth, time shuddering
With all the glory we could have tasted instead.
* * *
With all the glory you could have tasted instead,
The immensity of our absence is listening
From death’s nervous mouth, time shuddering
At the end of this—a new dark forever,
Your faces sunken by the foul lights you lapped,
What the rawness of your wounds festered
To call justice. But the future will know.
Elegy With Its Breath Knocked Out
--for M.H. (1977 – 2022)
Is that the flute of your voice at my heart
daring to spill one more sobering truth?
Is that my anger’s ghost shaking my head?
Is that loneliness confusing the point?
Of course, it isn’t. Of course, it is.
Geffrey Davis (he/him) is a recipient of the James Laughlin Award and fellowships from Bread Loaf, Cave Canem, the NEA, and the Whiting Foundation. He teaches creative writing at the University of Arkansas, serves as core faculty for the Rainier Writing Workshop, and is the poetry editor for Iron Horse Literary Review.