Coming Out
by Kenneth Wanamaker

    The trowel lies on the lawn
    where I dropped it
    when Sondra called to ask
    'Is it true? Are you gay?'
    Now a week later I return to the trowel.
    blades of grass are yellowing
    beneath the weight of its shank.
    How strange that, bereft of light,
    blades assume that color,
    as though they swallowed the sun.

    Nearby, a garden trough
    collects spring water
    and the grass in rain
    grows soft like eider down,
    the blades greener
    than unripened apples.
    A luster glistens on the spot
    envied by struggling blades
    of a paler green and yellow.

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