The valleys go slack
with flowers of fog
violet violets, secret
victory for plants, the quietest
creatures, victory for winter-
berry, red as buttons through the trees.
Every senator and judge has buttons
early November and it’s the last
leaves down to burning
clatter. I came this morning
for the first time in a long time, waiting
to find out who’s president
I want to be stronger, a stranger
and more simple.
There’s a version of time
we all hate
and can’t get out of
it’s not like the water
and burning silver. Into the same
new time I look up
from the railroad trestle that crosses the creek;
a pageant of long, lit
high up through the air
from west to east.
What are they?
They are glazed with sun.
They are the quiet genitals of this moment,
the tired genitals of the citizens
counting ballots, behind them the mountain
is in shadow,
through a blaze of courtesy
I touch them paying
to the root.
Abby Minor lives in the ridges and valleys of central Pennsylvania, where she works on poems, essays, paintings, quilts, and projects for reproductive justice. Her writings appear or are forthcoming in Fence, Cut Bank, The American Poetry Review, Bitch, So to Speak, Feminist Studies, and elsewhere. The granddaughter of Appalachian tinkerers and Yiddish-speaking New Yorkers, she is Bitch Media’s 2018 Writing Fellow in Sexual Politics and the author of the poetry chapbooks Real Words for Inside (Gap Riot Press) and Plant Light, Dress Light (dancing girl press).
© Variant Literature Inc 2021