Bluff

Smith’s searing fourth collection (after Homie) offers a powerful self-indictment of art and the artist in an age of social and political collapse. Rooted in critical self-awareness in the midst of ongoing racial violence, mass protest, and political division, the poems showcase Smith’s growing skepticism toward poetry that is simply performative in its politics or that fails to radically engage with reality: “poetry/ happens, something to do with my hands/ that’s not jailtime, why lie tho, i’m a/ coward, a slave to slavery, it makes me a/ salary.” In the wake of George Floyd’s murder by police, Smith chronicles protests in the Twin Cities, telling readers, “if the cops kill me/ don’t grab your pen/ before you find/ your matches.” Animated by an insight born of anger, Smith demands an attention to the present as an antidote to a future that seems increasingly unlikely: “love me now./ tomorrow has no face.” It’s a necessary and challenging jolt to the system. (Aug.)