Etymology of Orange
I want to be as bold as Orange that made a name out of its very own colour. Oranges and the blossom in Sevilla. Orange that takes courage to peel with cuts. Orange that Jeanette says is not the only. Orange of the light that takes care of the street corners where we would hide and kiss and become official; Orange that leaked onto buildings and licked the pavements not just in September. Orange campsis that stained her cheek from her ear, when it was dark, and we thought that we too could be gardens before we realised that not all of them are free, they’re shut up and unkept by a rigid five p.m. So we walked past Rent-a-Bike in the near rain at ten to twelve down the pitch black corners of apartments with Orange doors. A flame igniting as the crushed foxgloves blared Nat King Cole’s Orange Coloured Sky and leaked onto the white sheets, half-dead poison berry itch inside the bloom, marking my chest crimson from that leaking sap stinging. She said, ‘Orange is the colour of healing’, and kissed my thighs ill. Shy segments folded away one by one, not to be bitten into but peeled back to the pulp dripping / butterflies multiplying among the nectar / sting / torn seeds / only growing in pressured heat anticipating courage that was out of season. I was chewing mint for years before this sip. My tongue refuted the hidden brand new. A bud not formed from knowing but from tasting the sourness. That sourness linger. The mask of sweet: becoming as bold as Orange who made a name out of its very own colour, and a burn, steady sweet, yet always bitter, somehow.
Tayla Halfacre is a poet and writer/director who has recently graduated with a BA from the Warwick Writing Programme at the University of Warwick. She is based in Northamptonshire and her debut play 'Lesbian Line' about the grassroots organization will be on at the Playhouse Theatre in Northampton in October.