Mono

Monday and the sky cinches
in sardine-like.
Cellophane, saranwrap, monosodium glutamate.
I munch the inside of my cheek.
I mount the metaphorical monorail. I slather
salt on my omelet to muster a flavour.

Monotremes are the last
egg-laying mammals.
Echidnas, duck-billed platypuses.
We all mad-paddle Moebius circles
on islands inside our own eggshells.
Brittle or rubberized, do membranes
protect or constrain? Static

electricity strikes when two bodies
rub together. The weather’s dry
and we’ve both been insulated a long time.

I roll six dice in Monopoly. I gamble
a game of monogamy. I fiddle-faddle
this fucking monocle, finessing
my view through one eyeball.

I watch men fly
on and off my balcony
on monoplanes, motorcycles, mounted
on the backs of Cyclopses. Watch them
erect monoliths in the kitchen, monologue
and masturbate, measure
their cocks in my mouth.

Is monomania
– the ability to hold only one thought at a time –
the opposite of anxiety?

I once had infectious mononucleosis, and man
the dreams you dredge up when dormant.
Dirigibles, diplodocus on Quaaludes, demijohns
of fruit flies, everything
mingled and marvelous.

Danielle Hubbard

Danielle Hubbard’s poetry has appeared in several literary magazines, including The Fiddlehead, The Antigonish Review, Grain, FreeFall, and Best Canadian Poetry. When not writing, Danielle spends her time cycling, running, and working as the CEO of the Okanagan Regional Library.