Things I flirt with
I flirt with pigeons. I like the staccato
shillyshally of their heads. I flirt
with waitresses, lifeguards, gym
attendants. Who doesn’t?
I flirt with GoodCook scissors,
X-Acto knives, plastic
bags. The electric
transcendence at the end of a marathon.
I flirt with podium finishes, or rather,
they flirt with me.
Yes, to men and Kawasakis. I
flirt
with missed opportunities.
They taste like coffee grounds
and Merlot from last November.
I flirt with mountains, that Icarus crave.
With quadriceps, trapezius, the whole
collective ballast of muscles.
I flirt with my husband. Sometimes
it works and we fuck like jackrabbits.
Other times, he laughs
and I crawl off to life
as a dishrag.
My thumbs flirt
with nihilism. They gouge
the skin from each other’s cuticles.
I flirt with speed trials, blood drives.
I want to drain
myself dry.
I flirt with transplants, the idea
of off-loading organs. I flirt
with the uncertain value of livers,
ventricles, the vertebral canal. I don’t know
if I should coddle mine or wring
them hard while I have the chance.
I flirt with seagulls – the plastic
definitude of their eyes.
I flirt with off-white
linoleum and the guardrail
of the 18th
Street Bridge.
With immortality. It tastes
like aspartame.
My nerves
My nerves are spark plugs, detonators,
elastane swimwear.
I lean over Mom as she throws up
on the linoleum. My nerves
are a
badling of ducks, calm
on the
surface, battling
under the
water. My nerves
are a
symphony but only
the string
section. My nerves
are dental
floss. Why be a loser?
they lecture me, languid
and relaxed for no reason.
We
got this. You and your mom
with
the chemo circuitry.
La-di-da,
la-la-la.
My nerves are harried
and haggard some mornings
but hitch me, herd me, heap me
with eggs and sausage, toss
me out the door in the dark.
They hump me, hurt me, heave
me up to the summit of Mount Doug
where the sky
turns synaptic white
and abracadabra orange.
Kaboom!
Why I fear the colour pink
Because earthworms are umbilical cords
and newborn mice t-spoons of blood.
Because pink is a sissy colour and my
brother
never wore it. Because last night my
3-year-old
niece held up a collage of her
favourite
animals – pig, hippo, octopus –
and all I could think was, You are
so
far away and you’ll never be mine.
I fear
the colour pink because skin after a
scab
has the sheen of uncovered organs.
Because
no one thinks twice about an elastic
band
before the snap. Because the female
octopus
decomposes to feed her hatchlings.
Because erasers are the abortionists
of the stationary world. Because
flamingoes
are carnival stilt-walkers and no one
trusts an attention-whore. My sister
and I
flew to Vegas. She needed a reprieve
from her husband, her lover, her
3-year-old
daughter, just for one lungful, please.
We spent an hour in the casino gift
store
and she came away with a palm-sized
stuffed flamingo and a cherry pink
necktie.
I came away with a bag of cotton
candy and an aching jaw. I fear the
colour
pink because gums are reluctant
landlords.
Because little girls are sugar and corn
syrup.
Because we rode the Big Apple Coaster,
screaming
then puked our strawberry daiquiris
and blood-raw steak into a trashcan. I
fear
the colour pink because tongues
are the portcullis-drawbridges of the
face.
Because pinkeye plagues my sister’s
daycare.
Because rosé
has all the potency of chardonnay
or malbec, but everyone agrees it’s the
classiest
choice for a toddler’s birthday party.
On being numerical about it
I’m
doing bent-over rows today, trying
to resprout
my opinions, pinions.
I’m
doing lat pulldowns but my wings
haven’t
grown in yet. Welcome
to the
moral morass that succeeds an affair.
On a
scale of one to eleven
tell
me the salinity of lactic acid.
Where one
is a boneless chicken breast
and eleven
a velociraptor, how would you rate
the
following: trapezius, rhomboid minor,
serratus
superior? Cassowaries are the closest
surviving
descendants of dinosaurs
and
also the lethalest of birds.
I’m
newly invested in facts
and
birds that can’t fly.
With
what regularity – you ask –
do I
phone my lover? Be quantitative.
I’m
hiding birds around the kitchen.
Eagles,
robins, blue-footed
boobies
tucked in the Tupperware.
Cockerels
crammed in the cutlery.
Black
and white birds are best
because
you know where you stand.
Magpies
are chessboards, ready for combat.
Pigeons
are grey and a waste of space.
Tuxedos
are black and white.
Women in grey dresses flirt
behind the buffet table. I guess
I’m one of them. On a scale of one
to eleven, what’s the salinity of cum?
How many seagulls to airlift a peach?
Which body part reminds you most
of an albatross, a grouse?
If you had to lose one, which
would you choose? Please
be numerical about it.
Danielle Hubbard’s poetry has appeared in several literary magazines, including The Fiddlehead, The Antigonish Review, Prairie Fire, and The Malahat Review. When not writing, Danielle spends her time cycling, hiking, swimming, and exploring. She works as the CEO of the Okanagan Regional Library, based in Kelowna.