Prose, Poetry, and Art since 1956
It was Ramadan. In the time of Trump. So you couldn’t just go to some restaurants, you’d have to wait until dark. I don’t fast, but to eat in front of other Arab Americans who do would be an asshole move, undignified. Dignity is my organized religion.
Only your great grandmother came straight from the kitchen to the table, still stinking of brine and iron. Resplendent in her Shabbos skirt, matte ocher blood becomes evening gloves.
Writing as counterspell, against/thoughts that quantified how much space he filled,/of how much space the air filled—how detectable/the displacement of water.
“The third indicator of spring is the arrival of prospective businessmen. They enter the woods and go from tree to tree, soliciting ‘lucrative opportunities’ to the area. One of them had long legs and a short torso. His skin was smooth and reflective.”
E. Y. Smith’s work has appeared or is forthcoming in McSweeney’s Internet Tendency, Thoughtful Dog, The East Bay Review, and The Brooklyn Review.