IN THE MARKET

by Angie Minkin

Here we are again, 

an unseasonably warm day at the end of February

and San Francisco’s Alemany Farmer’s Market

bursts with early blueberries and babies, 

the first pink tulips and yellow ranunculus. 

A three-year-old in ruffles, her white dress tied

with a sash, smiles as she pushes her brother

in his stroller, her mama close by in case of trouble. 

I imagine markets in Iran, babies and strollers, 

mamas in hijabs buying dates and radishes. 

Little girls playing with their brothers. 

I imagine bombs and blood.

These babies.

This market. 

Here we are again.

 

                                    

A poetry reader for The MacGuffin, Angie Minkin stands on her head for inspiration. Her poems are widely published and she is honored to be named the 2025 Passager Poet. Her chapbook, Balm for the Living, was published in 2023.  She is a co-author of Season Lightly with Salt.

FLIGHT PATHS

by Angie Minkin

AI-Generated graphic from Shutterstock for The New Verse News

I write postcards every day in bright blue ink,

the color of the sea, the color of hope.

Do these missives even matter?

Fingers cramped, I stretch, breathe,

step outside, rest in shade, pause,

think of the future, our families, this earth.

These women I write to—

Brittany, Natalie, Peng,

in Arizona, Nevada, Nebraska,

moms who love their kids,

wash the clothes, sweep the floors,

dry the tears, pump the gas.

Shirley, Andrea, Mattie, and Nicole—

we’re all in this together, dear women,

and I see your kids outside playing tag,

sipping water, running free.

My postcards fly to your mailboxes,

homing pigeons with stars and hearts.

 

Homing pigeons with stars and hearts,

my postcards fly to your mailboxes,

as kids sip water, run free

and I see our kids outside playing tag. 

We’re all in this together, dear women,

Shirley, Andrea, Mattie, and Nicole—

dry your tears. Pump the gas,

sweep the floors, wash the clothes.

We’re moms who love our kids

in California, Arizona, Nevada, Nebraska. 

Brittany, Natalie, Peng,

I write to you as friends,

so think of our kids, our futures, this earth.

Step outside, sit down in shade, pause.

Stretch cramped hands, breathe.

Do these missives even matter?

I imagine hope the color of the sea. Please

read my bright blue ink, my postcards. Vote.

 

Postcards to Voters Program

Angie Minkin is an award-winning Pushcart Prize-nominated San Francisco poet who reads the news and tries not to despair. She stands on her head for inspiration when gazing out the window doesn’t work. Her work has been published in Birdy, Loch Raven Review, The MacGuffin, New Verse News, Rattle, Stirring, Westchester Review, and elsewhere. Her chapbook, Balm for the Living, was published in 2023.

SNAKES IN AMERICA

by Angie Minkin

Two days after he read this poem critical of Immigration and Customs Enforcement (ICE) before the Kern County Board of Supervisors in California, Jose Bello, a father, farm worker, and Bakersfield College student, was arrested by ICE. The ACLU sued. On July 29, 2019, PEN America filed a friend of the court brief urging a federal appeals court in California to immediately release Jose, arrested and detained for publicly reciting a poem. Visit facebook.com/FreeJoseBello for updates.

Snakes slither from deep crevasses
in harsh, gray dust.
The earth splits, shakes, and shakes again.
We lock children in cages,
tossed away like broken birds.
Is this our America?

Our skins shaded
by cloud forests, mountains, deserts.
We kneel in the dark,
seek light beyond clouds,
cry for our babies.
Dear America, what are you afraid of?

Hollow-eyed families abandoned on the streets,
old cans kicked down the road.
Our country in tatters,
our leaders hiss lies.

A poet arrested—
heed the oracle.
Take to the streets, America.
We are in battle for our souls.
                                                                                                                     

Angie Minkin is a writer currently living in San Francisco, CA. A Poetry Editor with Vistas & Byways Review, her work appears or is forthcoming in that journal as well as The Pangolin Review, Oh Mama, Bach in the Afternoon, and These Fragile Lilacs. Angie is inspired by the political landscape, poetry of liberation, and the voice of the wise woman.

I BELIEVE HER EVERY WORD

by Angie Minkin

The first time I was six years old,

walking home from school
with my best friend.
Big boys pulled us into the bushes.
They pulled our panties down
and laughed.
We ran home ashamed,
too afraid to tell.

When Ann and I were nine,
an older kid in the neighborhood
convinced us to join him
on his porch swing.
I remember every touch -
creepy, scary, so wrong.
That time we told.
Buzz was sent away.
His mother screamed at us.
We moved soon after.

Fast forward a hundred slights,
a thousand catcalls,
a million looks behind me
when I dared to walk alone at night.

Stop at 25:  our safe Iowa town, so friendly -
no one ever locked the door.
indescribable chill of a stranger in my bedroom,
pulling the sheet off my naked body,
my boyfriend right next to me.
I was nightmare frozen, voice strangled
Dan lost his voice screaming as he chased the intruder.

I knew it was Ben, our landlord’s strange nephew.
it was dark—I couldn’t prove it.
The cops didn’t believe me.
Why was I on trial?
I check all doors carefully now.

Stop at 27:  eager to start my new career
teaching disturbed kids in East Palo Alto
The day before school started,
the assistant principal showed me the supply closet.
Yes, he got me in a clinch.
What a stupid cliché.
I forced my arms up
as he forced his tongue in my mouth.
I didn’t know his name then.
I’ll never forget it now.

Stop at 32:  working in a Mission District office
a vagrant licked the large window
masturbated while staring right at me.
I pressed charges.
The jury found reasonable doubt
after I was grilled on my past.

Now a woman past my prime,
the cloak of invisibility is comforting
But the bile in my throat
will never completely vanish.

Angie Minkin’s poems have been published in The Pangolin Review and Vistas & Byways. After years of working her left brain, she is happily rehabilitating my right brain with poetry, yoga, and dance.  Minkin lives in San Francisco’s blue bubble where she takes poetry workshops with mentors Diane Frank and Kathleen McClung.