Alumnae Poets

Abby Minor '08

Abby Minor
Abby Minor lives in the ridges and valleys of central Pennsylvania, occupied Lenape land, where she works on poems, essays, gardens, paintings, quilts, and projects for reproductive justice. The recipient of fellowships, residencies, and awards from Bitch Media, Split this Rock, The Rensing Center, The Penland School of Crafts, Sundress Academy for the Arts, and the Ora Lerman Charitable Trust, Abby is an advisory board member of Abortion Conversation Projects and the founding director of Ridgelines Language Arts. Her poems and essays appear inCutBankaptBitchFENCEThe Fourth RiverSo to SpeakBlazeVOXCalyx Journal, and others; she is also the author of the poetry chapbooks Real Words for Inside (Gap Riot Press) and Plant Light, Dress Light (dancing girl press). Since 2012 Abby has taught poetry writing and art classes in her region’s community centers and low-income nursing homes. 

Select Poems

If I had a kid I could

write about how great that is

but instead I just live

across from the half-size

basketball court with global

warming all around. Now it’s late and beautiful

night rain comes tenderly and last

night there were white &

orange stars hissing high                                                         

enough to hurt your teeth, stars which

by the way I could see in

spite of the street

lamp which the Civic Club says

I can buy a shade for as long

as it still shines light

on the flag. Personally I

wouldn’t want to be lit

all the time since half my life

consists of waving in the dark. Over at

my neighbor’s house I like

to walk over there in the dark

get dripped on by trees share

a beer & look at a poem in

The Oxford American that looks

gently back. There


we were in a lit

kitchen in a brick

house near a small walnut

forest next to a

limestone mine all

of which also got

dark. Like the paper on

my dead father’s shiny

tobacco tins I love the rain

at night it’s teal

and gold but mostly

silver and black. Walking

back to my house I

got dripped on by leaves I

registered the new real

estate sign in the dead

Irish guy’s yard I

thought I heard a snap

In my step I thought if I

had a shade I’d still

turn out the lights.


published in BlazeVOX17 Spring 2017