The Day Before the Ironman

In a rented Camaro, we careen 

to the northernmost tip of the island 

—lava fields like the entrails 

of a giant snail, but black, 

black, black. Every mountain 

in this chain is volcanic, spigotted. 

You drive with both hands on the wheel. 

My head won’t turn because I’ve pulled 

something intractable 

in my neck. My temples

are brimstone. The sun

comes jagged off the ocean.

Sea turtles bake at the waterline.

Salt and black sand crust their shells, 

under-bellies, the rheumy skin 

around their eyes. My stomach 

is pancake batter and gasoline.

Last night we barbequed lamb shank.

You cranked Nirvana, lit another Export A,

stared at me hard

in the eyes, or something like that.

The bike course terminates 

in Hawi, the northernmost tip.

Tomorrow, I’ll churn this road 

and blister both palms, my sit-bones,

the inside of my skull. 

I only want something 

from my body 

that has nothing to do with you.

In the final ascent to Hawi, the world

turns suddenly lush, rain-soaked.

We lunch at the Bamboo Restaurant, 

where you drink mai tais, pina coladas, 

and I eat carbs and tuna. I think

during this meal, I’m happy.

DANIELLE HUBBARD lives in Kelowna, BC, where she works as the CEO of the Okanagan Regional Library. Her poetry has appeared in CV2, The New Quarterly, and Prairie Fire, among other places. When not writing or working, Danielle spends most of her time cycling.