FILE UNDER: CLOSET, COMING OUT OF

Ken Pobo


My friend Jayne says she would play in closets, the bigger the better, when she was little. I liked closets too, the smell of cloth, mothballs, and maybe old perfume. Door closed, I took in my dadís flashlight so I could see what I was doing, which usually wasnít much, just thinking, enjoying not being in school or getting grabbed to go shopping. I got too big for the closet--the more I grew, the more it resembled a coffin with me upright in it. I had to burst out, though some people wanted to kill me, to make sure the closet coffin would serve a useful purpose. But Iím out. Light shines on robust pansy faces, multi-colored, in the garden. The river sun runs up my spine. No closet can contain such a river.



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Panic! Poets

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