Saturday online book club
I do that thing where I sip Riesling
from a coffee mug, blow on the surface,
cradle the ceramic to my chin as if nursing
the warmth. My cheeks flush nicely.
This book club is an act
of deep inveiglement. My sister tells me
white wine is best for daycare parties
because it looks – at a glance – like lemonade.
My husband walked out this morning
with only his backpack, like a five-year-old
off to school, that bounce in his step.
We’ve been fighting a lot lately.
He may or may not come back
at the end of the weekend.
I’ve been running my hand
across the carpet all afternoon,
smoothing out his footprints
and feeling – just feeling – the texture.
I’m feeling my age today, all 37 years.
My laptop and I sit on the floor, little friends.
The bones above my eyes throb –
the place on the human skull where mothers massage
when they think about their children. I don’t
have children, so I can afford to focus
on the carpet, the carnation decal on this mug,
whatever book we’re supposed to be discussing.
Stigmatized property
A man named Shilo Jacobson shot himself in the jugular
at the kitchen island of the condo
my husband and I bought in Kelowna.
Stigmatized property, said the letter of offer.
We didn’t own the place when this happened,
when Mr. Jacobson walked home on a Tuesday evening,
along Brandt Creek, with mallards skittered
out of his way across the trail.
He climbed the 21 flights of stairs – his custom.
Opened the closet beside the gas stove
and polished his Remington 700 on a tea towel
before going for the ammunition.
Bits of cartilage all over the backsplash.
I heard from a neighbour it took him 48 minutes to suffocate.
Our strata documents had other details:
window coverings must be cream or white.
Pets not permitted to urinate on common property.
A reasonable number of fish or other small
aquarium animals permitted.
We repainted the kitchen cream.
I bought an aquarium and populated it
with half a dozen freshwater angelfish – reasonable.
Evenings, I boil fettuccine, sauté chanterelles,
pan fry pork chops until they spit hot oil and gristle
that clings to the backsplash
and I have to step out to the balcony
to catch my breath. My husband
stops eating once he’s two glasses down.
To him, the kitchen is no obstacle.
April afternoon on the Inner Harbour
A float plane pedals up.
I used to live in this city, used to dance
at Swan’s Hotel and Brewpub –
live bands and alive.
I nurse a honey lager overlooking
Johnson Street Bridge, cyclists,
seagulls coasting the breeze. Across the water,
the Delta Grand rears like a toy castle.
My undergrad sweetheart used to meet me
at the harbour ferry dock after his shifts
and just over there, off Wharf Street,
my friend Mishka poured candles for a living.
I used to think I could never
be unfaithful.
My backpack carries my laptop
and dirty Nikes. I’m here for work.
I want extravagance this weekend,
this April afternoon.
Mishka now sells silk-screened dresses.
This morning, she plied me with a black one
printed in dandelions and bicycle spokes.
I cinched it around my ribcage, waist,
all the soft organs I can’t name.
I have a gentle crush on our graphic designer,
Tegan – the phantasm of his hand
on my elbow, stepping into my office,
holding each other,
and letting it be only that.
He flirts with divorce, I do too.
But there’s already been so much
breaking this year.
What aperitifs do I bring to the table?
Bubly water, lemon meringue, resentment.
Everything that starts out sweet
then charbroils in the back of your mouth.
My husband’s tongue
is the colour of drip coffee and suspicion.
The conversations of other drinkers
mishmash to rhubarb and glossolalia.
I want innocence like Vaseline.
What if I were to stay
at Mishka’s apartment tonight?
In Tegan’s hotel room?
I’d listen to the seagulls
either way, and sleep.
Danielle Hubbard lives in Kelowna, BC, where she works as the CEO of the Okanagan Regional Library. Her poetry has appeared in Grain, The Malahat Review, and Prairie Fire, among other places. When not writing or working, Danielle enjoys cycling, swimming, and exploring the Okanagan Valley.
Chantarelle's Notebook 