Jazz music swings across the pages of Clint Smith’s Above Ground; souls bougie in response. 

In one particularly vivid piece, “Dance Party,” Smith describes a kitchen in controlled-chaos post-dinner, as his daughter starts “flinging her limbs like an off-beat octopus” and his son is “doing the robot… / or is being eaten by a robot.” The father begins an ill-advised worm on kitchen tile, which can only lead to “a robot / and an octopus riding the back of a worm / who will certainly need some Tylenol before bed.” 

Smith primarily focuses on his family to present a soft emotional core of modern American life, albeit expanding outwards to heavier topics, like school shootings and military air strikes. Smith keeps his writing accessible by grounding these difficult subjects in the concrete of “half-eaten Pop-Tarts” and “the quarters in [his] pockets.” 

However, these references,  like school shootings or specific cupboard snacks, are deeply rooted in the American experience. That specificity is part of what makes the work so authentic and resonant for me, but may prove jarring for my international friends. 

In Above Ground’s world, problems are always approached with thoughtfulness and people always approached with love. This could lean cliché from a lesser writer, but Smith’s narrative skill shoulders the “soft hum of history” to stride with nuance across the pages - ending somewhere like hope. 

Who do I recommend this to? 

Frankly, every American above ground. 

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