Until All That Was Left Was a Voice
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Current Issue
Poems
/ March 16, 2026
Until All That Was Left Was a Voice
Geffrey Davis
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I.
Fear wanted my name sealed within
A question not even my bluest instinct
Could unfold. But then the wind began to flutter
The first bright image I heard make the darkness sing.
To think, before this, I felt ready to lose the miracle
Of adding a few quiet feathers to the heart.
To think: I trusted that silence was my destiny.
***
You’ve believed before that your destiny was with silence.
Then a wanting suddenly feathered this bright instinct
Already added to your name, a windy heart
No question will seal or quiet, the bluest flutter.
Nothing can undo the miracle of hearing
What has yet to unfold. Trust what you began:
Only you can make your darkness sing.
II.
To banish that empty kind of praying, I try
Tilting this pain-invented loudness from my breath.
I swear a new season lives there. I hear it humming
With every reason to make the rain into an answer.
Whether I speak or stay silent, I desire
The good promise in each body to continue.
The sky is where I choose to look now.
***
Don’t forget the sky’s answer inside you,
Each rain-cloud kind of humming
With breath. Whether tried or tilted,
The right prayer will invent a new reason
Not to banish the good body still living there.
You can choose to hear it now, every season,
This emptying of any knowing that promises pain.
III.
I only mention more birds for the music
To soften the hurt of all connection. But shame would
Aim the infinity of my mind at another dead return
Failed by light. Sometimes, too many stilled wings
Rhyme with “never”—my limbs going so numb
Remembering what the hunch in my back couldn’t make
Stony or clear. I’m waiting for this to sound like safety…
***
To be clear and unmoved: your own listening is becoming a softness…
Even when reviving a dead hunch still drowning in blame,
You’ve never been known to mention a failure that couldn’t hold
The music of safety. If aimed at infinity, your mind remembers
Some numbed desires will rhyme with a hurt bird’s return—
But only to find the hymn for calling back more
Of the banished light. It sounds like many, many wings.
Keep Reading
Submit a correction
Send a letter to the editor
Reprints & permissions
Support independent journalism that does not fall in line
Even before February 28, the reasons for Donald Trump’s imploding approval rating were abundantly clear: untrammeled corruption and personal enrichment to the tune of billions of dollars during an affordability crisis, a foreign policy guided only by his own derelict sense of morality, and the deployment of a murderous campaign of …
Be honest—this is ridiculous.
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Password *
Remember Me
Forgot Your Password?
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Until All That Was Left Was a Voice
Magazine
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Log In
Search
Subscribe
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Magazine
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Economy
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Current Issue
Poems
/ March 16, 2026
Until All That Was Left Was a Voice
Geffrey Davis
Share
Copy Link
X (Twitter)
Bluesky Pocket
Ad Policy
I.
Fear wanted my name sealed within
A question not even my bluest instinct
Could unfold. But then the wind began to flutter
The first bright image I heard make the darkness sing.
To think, before this, I felt ready to lose the miracle
Of adding a few quiet feathers to the heart.
To think: I trusted that silence was my destiny.
***
You’ve believed before that your destiny was with silence.
Then a wanting suddenly feathered this bright instinct
Already added to your name, a windy heart
No question will seal or quiet, the bluest flutter.
Nothing can undo the miracle of hearing
What has yet to unfold. Trust what you began:
Only you can make your darkness sing.
II.
To banish that empty kind of praying, I try
Tilting this pain-invented loudness from my breath.
I swear a new season lives there. I hear it humming
With every reason to make the rain into an answer.
Whether I speak or stay silent, I desire
The good promise in each body to continue.
The sky is where I choose to look now.
***
Don’t forget the sky’s answer inside you,
Each rain-cloud kind of humming
With breath. Whether tried or tilted,
The right prayer will invent a new reason
Not to banish the good body still living there.
You can choose to hear it now, every season,
This emptying of any knowing that promises pain.
III.
I only mention more birds for the music
To soften the hurt of all connection. But shame would
Aim the infinity of my mind at another dead return
Failed by light. Sometimes, too many stilled wings
Rhyme with “never”—my limbs going so numb
Remembering what the hunch in my back couldn’t make
Stony or clear. I’m waiting for this to sound like safety…
***
To be clear and unmoved: your own listening is becoming a softness…
Even when reviving a dead hunch still drowning in blame,
You’ve never been known to mention a failure that couldn’t hold
The music of safety. If aimed at infinity, your mind remembers
Some numbed desires will rhyme with a hurt bird’s return—
But only to find the hymn for calling back more
Of the banished light. It sounds like many, many wings.
Keep Reading
Submit a correction
Send a letter to the editor
Reprints & permissions
Support independent journalism that does not fall in line
Even before February 28, the reasons for Donald Trump’s imploding approval rating were abundantly clear: untrammeled corruption and personal enrichment to the tune of billions of dollars during an affordability crisis, a foreign policy guided only by his own derelict sense of morality, and the deployment of a murderous campaign of …
Until All That Was Left Was a Voice
Be honest—this is ridiculous.
Log In
Email *
Password *
Remember Me
Forgot Your Password?
Log In
New to The Nation? Subscribe
Print subscriber? Activate your online access
Skip to content Skip to footer
Until All That Was Left Was a Voice
Magazine
Newsletters
Subscribe
Log In
Search
Subscribe
Donate
Magazine
Latest
Archive
Podcasts
Newsletters
Sections
Politics
World
Economy
Culture
Books & the Arts
The Nation
About
Events
Contact Us
Advertise
Current Issue
Poems
/ March 16, 2026
Until All That Was Left Was a Voice
Geffrey Davis
Share
Copy Link
Facebook
X (Twitter)
Bluesky Pocket
Email
Ad Policy
I.
Fear wanted my name sealed within
A question not even my bluest instinct
Could unfold. But then the wind began to flutter
The first bright image I heard make the darkness sing.
To think, before this, I felt ready to lose the miracle
Of adding a few quiet feathers to the heart.
To think: I trusted that silence was my destiny.
***
You’ve believed before that your destiny was with silence.
Then a wanting suddenly feathered this bright instinct
Already added to your name, a windy heart
No question will seal or quiet, the bluest flutter.
Nothing can undo the miracle of hearing
What has yet to unfold. Trust what you began:
Only you can make your darkness sing.
II.
To banish that empty kind of praying, I try
Tilting this pain-invented loudness from my breath.
I swear a new season lives there. I hear it humming
With every reason to make the rain into an answer.
Whether I speak or stay silent, I desire
The good promise in each body to continue.
The sky is where I choose to look now.
***
Don’t forget the sky’s answer inside you,
Each rain-cloud kind of humming
With breath. Whether tried or tilted,
The right prayer will invent a new reason
Not to banish the good body still living there.
You can choose to hear it now, every season,
This emptying of any knowing that promises pain.
III.
I only mention more birds for the music
To soften the hurt of all connection. But shame would
Aim the infinity of my mind at another dead return
Failed by light. Sometimes, too many stilled wings
Rhyme with “never”—my limbs going so numb
Remembering what the hunch in my back couldn’t make
Stony or clear. I’m waiting for this to sound like safety…
***
To be clear and unmoved: your own listening is becoming a softness…
Even when reviving a dead hunch still drowning in blame,
You’ve never been known to mention a failure that couldn’t hold
The music of safety. If aimed at infinity, your mind remembers
Some numbed desires will rhyme with a hurt bird’s return—
But only to find the hymn for calling back more
Of the banished light. It sounds like many, many wings.
Keep Reading
Submit a correction
Send a letter to the editor
Reprints & permissions
Support independent journalism that does not fall in line
Even before February 28, the reasons for Donald Trump’s imploding approval rating were abundantly clear: untrammeled corruption and personal enrichment to the tune of billions of dollars during an affordability crisis, a foreign policy guided only by his own derelict sense of morality, and the deployment of a murderous campaign of …
