Reading A Tribute to Orange in New West
Reading at THE LONG POEM EVENT
A Tribute to Orange
the changing leaves in the cherry tree by my balconywelcoming cooler morningsof coffee and cream, the moon in harvest timetea and tiny cakes, my first Mid-Autumn Festivalin an apartment in Burnabyas I tutored students in poetry,
the generosity of the girls serving me with two open palmsand sending me home with extra
the colour of the tie-dyed skirt I admired in the window of a high end Granville shopforty-five dollars I didn’t have that whole summeryears later I returned and purchased an orange top at Rootsthat I wear with the memory of the window skirt from the summer of ‘97when I had been sleeping on two separating couch cushions in a smoky basementamazed at the possibility of a new life in BCthe first time I saw a four dollar coffeespending all of what I had left of my savings on beverages at Starbucksfor the family that housed me in their basementthe light of the sun as I purchased my first book in BC Timothy Findley’s Memory at a second-hand store on Granvilleeight dollars a shock –eight times more than what we charged at the Book Market in my old hoodand totally worth every last dollar
the hue of fall when I returned to BC for workand the moon I fell in love underin my thirties off Commercial Drivemy Wiccan boyfriend singing tunes to the spiritsthrough all nighters and essaysstudent teachingand me falling in love despite the fact he was leaving
the embers in a film I saw in kindergartenhow they held me in meditationthe first time I lost myself into a moving imagelike I had with the orange and yellow angel in the Advent calendarI stared at her so longperhaps seeking my spirit selfthe shaman within
the colours of the healing chakra lightin my raven dream sparks of yellow and orange as children danced safely in a circle and my spirit protected themmy calling to become ravenhe didn’t miss the colours at allhe is all of them
the pencil I chose for the triangles in my grade eight math bookthe notebook I sat up in the early morning redoing in bedin fear it was not neat enough the first timethe light orange shade calming my anxiety and post traumatic stress disorder
the piece of clothwe got for two dollars in Montrealcovered in stars and the candle I got to matchhow I imagined it as the floor of the mud hutin my first novel of street lifebefore it travelled with me into videos of loss and healingand finally the student productions of Shakespeare’s Midsummer Night’s Dream
the colour of the first imageI imagined in Frenchwhen I was tutoring a beloved studentwho could read my mind
the shiny hue I chose for my first pedicureand admired all summer barefoot at English Baysoft sand between white toesand a rhinestone that I valued like a diamond
October in the Elgin Street Parkwhere my grandparents metthe roses my Australian friend paintedwhen I presented them to her a hostess gift for the home cooked dinner, preceding their children’s evening recital
my favourite Cotton Ginny shirtmy grandparents bought me in Florida the day we sampled fresh squeezed juice in tiny cups from the back of the truckmy grandma’s adoration even richerthan all the light of Miami
the cover of my belovedAlice Walker poetry bookpainted like the wallsof my Thirteenth Avenue apartment
the glow of the neighbor’s porch light through rainamber warmth reflected in puddleslike Paris café candles in the night
the first colour I seemixed with violetwhen I close my eyes
A Tribute to Orange
the changing leaves in the cherry tree by my balconywelcoming cooler morningsof coffee and cream, the moon in harvest timetea and tiny cakes, my first Mid-Autumn Festivalin an apartment in Burnabyas I tutored students in poetry,
the generosity of the girls serving me with two open palmsand sending me home with extra
the colour of the tie-dyed skirt I admired in the window of a high end Granville shopforty-five dollars I didn’t have that whole summeryears later I returned and purchased an orange top at Rootsthat I wear with the memory of the window skirt from the summer of ‘97when I had been sleeping on two separating couch cushions in a smoky basementamazed at the possibility of a new life in BCthe first time I saw a four dollar coffeespending all of what I had left of my savings on beverages at Starbucksfor the family that housed me in their basementthe light of the sun as I purchased my first book in BC Timothy Findley’s Memory at a second-hand store on Granvilleeight dollars a shock –eight times more than what we charged at the Book Market in my old hoodand totally worth every last dollar
the hue of fall when I returned to BC for workand the moon I fell in love underin my thirties off Commercial Drivemy Wiccan boyfriend singing tunes to the spiritsthrough all nighters and essaysstudent teachingand me falling in love despite the fact he was leaving
the embers in a film I saw in kindergartenhow they held me in meditationthe first time I lost myself into a moving imagelike I had with the orange and yellow angel in the Advent calendarI stared at her so longperhaps seeking my spirit selfthe shaman within
the colours of the healing chakra lightin my raven dream sparks of yellow and orange as children danced safely in a circle and my spirit protected themmy calling to become ravenhe didn’t miss the colours at allhe is all of them
the pencil I chose for the triangles in my grade eight math bookthe notebook I sat up in the early morning redoing in bedin fear it was not neat enough the first timethe light orange shade calming my anxiety and post traumatic stress disorder
the piece of clothwe got for two dollars in Montrealcovered in stars and the candle I got to matchhow I imagined it as the floor of the mud hutin my first novel of street lifebefore it travelled with me into videos of loss and healingand finally the student productions of Shakespeare’s Midsummer Night’s Dream
the colour of the first imageI imagined in Frenchwhen I was tutoring a beloved studentwho could read my mind
the shiny hue I chose for my first pedicureand admired all summer barefoot at English Baysoft sand between white toesand a rhinestone that I valued like a diamond
October in the Elgin Street Parkwhere my grandparents metthe roses my Australian friend paintedwhen I presented them to her a hostess gift for the home cooked dinner, preceding their children’s evening recital
my favourite Cotton Ginny shirtmy grandparents bought me in Florida the day we sampled fresh squeezed juice in tiny cups from the back of the truckmy grandma’s adoration even richerthan all the light of Miami
the cover of my belovedAlice Walker poetry bookpainted like the wallsof my Thirteenth Avenue apartment
the glow of the neighbor’s porch light through rainamber warmth reflected in puddleslike Paris café candles in the night
the first colour I seemixed with violetwhen I close my eyes
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