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
ah, still pushing out the boat buddy.
This one reads sad. Like a violation somehow, something lost, something learned.
The last two lines are really good. Even sunset (or sunrise) has been replaced by plastic.
It’s really beautiful.
Hi K. Thank you for reading (into) me. I’ve just posted a newer version… see what you think. I know you will gather many fish when you cast your nets… and I will wait for you.