Crush

Some men watch me pound 

50 kilometres a week 

on the treadmill, sweat 

at my hairline, muscles 

like ripcords in my thighs.

At the pool, they notice 

me in the black elastane 

one piece, the cut 

above my hips, how my nipples

shine as I slide

through chlorine like a finger 

through lube. 500 laps 

this week, androgynous 

except this ass. Hip flexion

and extension. Abduction

and adduction. I roll

onto my back as needed.

I see the men watching 

me scream down 18th Street, 

my windows down, 

Nine Inch Nails cranked, 

flaunting my triceps, each 

chord in my chest. Do I strike them

as unalloyed, distilled? Sinews 

and nothing? Imagine 

one day I’m racing traffic 

on my Tricross Specialized, 

no helmet, and I swerve 

sideways into an oncoming

semi and then – if that really 

happened, would any 

of those men

each morning forever

drive me to the pool, lower 

me into the chlorine and watch

me swim like a severed 

leech? Would they still consider 

me the loveliest 

creature to crush?

DANIELLE HUBBARD lives in Kelowna, BC, where she works as the CEO of the Okanagan Regional Library. Her poetry has appeared in a variety of literary magazines, including Grain, Geist, Prairie Fire, and CV2. When not writing or working, Danielle spends much of her time swimming, hiking, and exploring the Okanagan Valley.