Memories weave in and out of the poems in How Men Pray. There is some element of that, I suppose, in all poetry, but Philip F. Deaver's honest work brings with it a healing touch. One poem recalls his dad "the year before the wreck" and another his mother, whose "house smelled of starch and soap and food," enjoying a meal at Shoney's with only weeks to live. On one level, Deaver accepts the reality of pain, but also questions its purpose. How does the past affect our present, our future, ourselves, our children? What do old typewriters and club houses, lifting "whole worlds upwards" and crosses in sugar have to do with truth? Let's fly with Deaver, "high enough to see the blur of childhood," yet not forget we are also the ones "looking up, squinting hard" as we find meaning in these poems and beyond.

For more, go to Anhinga Press or the Web site of  Philip F. Deaver.