Only Jesus Could Icefish in Summer

Poetry. "Abraham Smith carries greatness like a splinter in the lining of the heart. He carries it like a poison drunk up in infancy, a bone shard that traveled from a smashed rib or a flint of exploitation that was planted there by a bad friend or a wasted economic system. Yet music pours from Smith like blood, cheap wine, car-radio and bird song. Abe is an ecstatic, standing outside himself and singing to himself, the whole pulling- apart yet encapsulated pageant of Keats' Nightingale played out in the person of one poet."—Joyelle McSweeney