Tangerine

My horizon is a dusty orange glow
It takes me back to other oranges that feel like
my mother’s lukewarm hugs in our living room back when
the eggshell walls swallowed the crisp yellow to spit back a clement honey glow.
They resemble the photon spill on his olive skin
luminous in early evenings of slowly falling in love
sipping brunette lattes in cafes lit like a sunny day.
I play with petals of marigold
My heart afire and he takes me back to other oranges…
To scratchy old yellowing pages of books from my school library
that smell like decades and call like a freedom getaway….
To dimly lit dinners out with the family
where Mohammud Ahmed belts in the background
and I tip a bottle of Mirinda into my glass carefully
to show I could do it without being clumsy…
To the apricot princess dress I wore for my third birthday
And to the breath of ice and whisky when I was five
Where my father spun his glass with his finger and touched it to my lips
So I wouldn’t die of curiosity from the grownup liquor I followed earnestly with my eyes…
To cans of Merti Marmalade hurriedly consumed for breakfast
so when I sat for my first period class
I could still taste the bittersweet tinge on my tongue
And driving home in late afternoons
My horizons are almost always a dusty orange glow.
They take me back to clouds of sand I battled through
running away from looming canary mountains…
Back to lonely swinging neon light bulbs that lit my path when the war was over….
To candles that glow like halos around people I know
With their heads bowed praying to their deities…
To candles I lit on powerless nights with my friends
So we could gather to make shadow animals on the wall…
Candles I now light to go back other oranges….

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