Odile, The Black Swan
by Una McDonnell
Impossible to look at her without thinking dark water, depths
where light doesn’t reach. In the diner on Dalhousie,
her presence commands the booth, though only the decrepit
at the counter sees the water rising, water-
line gurgling just beneath her chin. Flutter
of a dark wing that briefly stretches. Sally, a regular, orders
coffee between johns, eggs at 4 a.m. They arrive, sunny side
silicon perfect. Minivans line up to glean sorrow
from her eyes. If only I could dance, says Sally. When the sky
turns pink, she’ll sleep. Odile once had an act involving lit black
candles and a snake. Smoke she could conjure on demand.
Rose on stage, an angel from the black lake.
They all desired her, but one. Before Champagne Rooms,
loose laws, when looking was enough—
She holds her mug as if it could contain her.
The transistor radio tin-tin-tins demented heart songs
tie a yellow ribbon … and getting caught
in the rain… and I’ll never have that recipe again…
Pale-skinned fries rise like broken limbs from plates, tendrils of vinegar
seep down. The scent is grease, acid, hot breath and chrome.
There are no new ways to be alone. There are no new ways to mourn.
Una McDonnell has recited her work at readings and music festivals, and on one occasion, in a boxing ring (Jill Battson’s Fighting Words Series). She holds an MFA in Creative Writing from UBC. Her work has appeared in Arc, The New Quarterly, Ottawater, Prairie Fire, Rampike, and Musings: An Anthology of Greek-Canadian Literature, and has been on the longlist for Prism International’s Pacific Spirit Poetry Prize, and twice for the CBC Literary Awards.
Photo credit: David Irvine