you gaudy home depot apron, abrupt as an alarm, like a siren sounding down a suburban street way past midnight, some unwelcome tragedy— orange, you mean hot but not too hot. coincidence laughs in my full moon face as i sit next to a clementine wall in this quiet cafe, as i spoon curried pumpkin soup on the first proper winter day while condensation droplets trickle down this side of the windowpane-- and remember, easing down into the feeling like a full warm bath: driving south through appalachia that november as the sun set every leaf ablaze, like millions of lightbulbs, they glowed from within, thrumming in every shade of saffron, persimmon, tiger’s eye, ochre, and you, orange, tinged the sky with one last brilliant light, stood alone against the encroaching purple indigo night, you, the sun’s swan song swath of color, a miracle i saw from the hood of a parked car, engine idling to keep the heat on, awash in your burning light, speechless
Olivia Braley is a mostly-poetry writer living in Annapolis, MD. She is a co-founder and Editor in Chief of Stone of Madness Press, and a Reader at Longleaf Review. Most recently, her work can be found in Versification’s June 2020 issue. Keep up with her on Twitter @OliviaBraley.