In Praise of Minor

poets, faithful to work that will meet 

with quiet. In praise of minor deities 

and whoever dreamed them up. Made 

Ariadne the goddess of passion 

and also mazes. Circuity and doubling 

back. In praise of college minors: 

Brewing. Cinema. Latin, though long 

dead. Praise Canis Minor, steadfast, forever 

the lesser dog. Praise minor chords 

that have consonance. A sadness

that resolves. Let’s praise minor 

inconveniences. The onions quick-

slipped from your sandwich, set 

down on your sweetheart’s waiting 

plate. In the kitchen they made the line cook 

cry. Praise minor tributaries, 

all that sliding water giving itself 

to another. In this minor league park, 

praise the runner, breaking for home 

on a sacrifice fly. He doesn’t 

make it. Praise the runner. 

When the phone trembles 

his pocket, for a beat it’s always Boston.

We need you. Come now.

Evening, September, and cold moves

from Casco Bay. The sky is burdening; 

they’re tarping the field. Still, you could stay. 

Maybe minor weather. Showers passing by.

A photo of Abbie Kiefer: She is sitting and wearing a white t-shirt with a yellow cardigan and teardrop-shaped copper earrings. Behind her, out of focus, is a leafy green plant in a white pot.

Abbie Kiefer is a poet from New Hampshire. Her work is forthcoming or has appeared in The Cincinnati Review, Ninth Letter, Ploughshares, Poet Lore, Poetry Northwest, and other places. She was a 2022 semifinalist for the 92Y Discovery Prize and is on the staff of The Adroit Journal. Find her online at