Tuesday Poem 004

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

2 thoughts on “Tuesday Poem 004

  1. 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 Even sunset (or sunrise) has been replaced by plastic.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.

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