her parents hugged her upon coming out,
he wished he could also share
how after his confession his mother
stilled, stood up, and shuffled down the hall,
how he heard the click of her bedroom door
as he balled his fists, head bent,
while his father stared out the window
at the birdhouse, empty since the swallows
flew south to flee the encroaching chill.
He was afraid Ruth would then
arrest his storytelling with tears
and well-meaning declarations
of how his parents didn’t deserve him,
how lucky that he now lives
three states away, untethered
from their callous neglect.
It’d be awkward to mention
how next morning, in the kitchen
he found no one yet saw
a steaming bowl of rice porridge,
wafting the aroma of ginger and
scallions and sesame oil, with a dollop
of chili crisp blooming crimson around it,
how his bike tires were re-inflated to
proper firmness between his thumb
and forefinger, how as he left for work,
he whispered thank you and noticed
sunlight flecking the front door.
