Shiny Apple
A Poem from a Gay Writer whose 80s Coming‑Out was shaped by Tracy Chapman and other strong women's music
Water first.
Shiny apple next.
Tracy Chapman
in the speakers.
Forest air through
the windows.
Opal behind
Pearl rising like a shift in key.
I never liked apples—
the way they sat in my stomach,
the boring ones,
the mealy ones.
But the accident
changed the body.
Sugarbee cracked thye door.
Honeycrisp followed.
Cosmic Crisp lit the sky.
And suddenly
I could hold sweetness
without pain.
I think of the song.
The one I never would have found
without a man and his dog,
singing it through stairways,
hallways,
my house,
my car,
the forest.
Dolce voice,
sweet in the way
truth sometimes
is.
Yeah, Tracy,
do you think I am
tempted by the shiny apple?
Hell yeah.
Or the bitter fruit?
Nope. None of us want it.
But we have it.
Orchards of it
spoiling, dying on the vine,
tastes of it,
bites that sting
our tongues,
sour our tummies.
Until
we choose
to hold up our hands,
our fists,
talking about a revolution,
like you said,
Tracy.
And you knew it,
long before we did,
how sweetness
and justice
share a root,
how truth has a flavor
we learn only
after the bruising.
You sang it plain,
just that steady voice
cutting through
the static of the world,
reminding us
that the orchard
is ours to tend,
ours to save,
ours to rise from,
the way a road
opens when someone
finally tells the truth
out loud.
You taught us
that a voice
can be a road,
can be a lantern
held steady
in a shaking hand,
can be the kind of truth
that doesn’t shout
but still
changes the room.
You showed us
how a song
can lift a burden
without pretending
it isn’t heavy,
how a melody
can carry a fight
without losing
its tenderness.
And you reminded us
that the world
doesn’t turn
because we wish it to,
it turns
because someone
finally says
what needed
to be said,
plain,
true,
unafraid.
Only for a sense of
justice.
Only for a sense of
truth.
Yeah, Tracy,
I’m getting in my
fast car,
go around, people,
I’m flooring it.
And the shiny apple,
the one in my hand,
polished on my shirt,
bright
as a morning intention.
I eat shiny apples—
the real ones,
the crisp ones,
the ones that steady me
before concrete byways,
before the world asks for more.
And I laugh at myself,
cursing about indents,
feeling too much about words,
finding the irony,
so ironic,
I giggle,
and keep driving,
windows down,
apple bright,
song true.
Daniel / Kana
7/15/26
I’m a Bio Boy
Kana writes from the body — from queer lineage, contemplative practice, and the slow disciplines of self‑care. His work is rooted in the Northwest Radical Faeries, rose culture, and long-standing devotional traditions. He serves on editorial boards, mentors emerging writers, and works as a community connector and naqib, tending to stories and relationships with attention and relational stewardship. He currently works in community mental health, though his primary vocation remains writing, service, and community care.