for Maribeth

There is no yellow or no blue without orange. 
                                                             —Vincent Van Gogh

She is a Hermes' bag, voluptuous in orange,
a sleuthing tiger on a bottle of merlot,
the sepals of hibiscus. She is mangrove
leaf soaked in the sun, and California poppy
that sashays when she moves.

Gumball-bright and bold Moon over Miami,
a juicy orange HoneyBell, this girl is presence,
a slice of orange surfing in the dark blue Atlantic,
an orange prop plane trailing advertisements.

Occasionally she's a sharp cheddar or a hot curry,
a prickly pear or a habanero, but often a Monarch,
and always an orange free state of one.

Alone at home, she releases the orange helium
balloon of herself, kicks off the electric orange Zappo's.
She hangs the Hermes bag,
and becomes instead a lighted lampshade,
watches sunset, snacks on fresh carrots,
sips a fresh-squeezed screwdriver.
The room turns blood orange, bittersweet,
and burnt. She curls up in her chair,
both golden and translucence, sweet release
into the sealed amber of the night.

This poem was first published by Red Cedar Press (University of Wisconsin, Barren Campus, 2014).
Used here with the author's permission.