Orange Elegy

Before it was a threat level, it was a tiger lily.
Before it meant caution and construction, it meant
delicious-as-saffron and eyeliner-of-a-kingfisher.
Monks dyed robes with it, milkweed bloomed
with it, tigers used it to brag their camouflage.
Kandinsky said it was red brought nearer to humanity
by yellow. Such a vibrant dazzle, its confidence
fit for tropical birds or bridges. The college team’s
jerseys like monarchs, like the sunset’s pageant dress—
so bewitching the team’s pilot rerouted the flight
for the show. Like the orange orchards I drove past
on my way to lifeguard at a lake full of alligators—
the intoxicating smell making me roll my windows
down and breathe so deeply I hyperventilated on beauty.
The gorgeous orange panic of those summer days.
Maybe it was always saying, Danger is coming.
Maybe what I called joy was caution after all,
a threat heralding itself with perfume before the shock
of discovery. After the team’s plane went down,
the police tape was yellow, but the black box
was orange. Electric. Neon. Announcing itself
among the ruin saying, Here, the answers are here.
After the disaster we wanted to know why, even
as we shaped knives from the wreckage. Trees wept
their amber. Jackfruit sweetened our blades. We painted
the memorial white, left marigolds next to each name.