The Precise Colour of Orange
How we sat in the driveway, the steering wheel of his
Dad’s Camaro Z-21 a palm-slapped punctuation
to my small indiscretion, my wrong choice of words.
How he taught me fear, feral, visceral, fear of losing
what I was convinced was needed.
How I made a point, slammed the car door, took off
down the road flushed and furious, blind wishing
for rescue or a sign. How I walked back alone
knowing I’d settled, drew lines against his hard hands
gave in to soft.
How in time, like dry ice white hugging a concert stage
obscures details, bodies, connections between objects
an illusion of grace where gravity holds its breath
I can’t recall what came next, how I knew I was done
how I held tight against the chill.
How I am now anchored here, arms wrapping knees, on cool sand
sun smoothing brow of round topped Monashee, while
Lesser Scaups gather Grebes, and float out to meet the coming dark.
How a florescent orange mooring float is a garish substitute
for unsung hues of a sky set on fire.
Lesley-Anne Evans, 2012