Satura Prize 2014

Rearrangement 1

by Ian Gibbins


Eventually, she turns and says to me

“Where are you coming from, mate?”

She says, “What planet are you on, eh?”


The night is jumpy with crickets and frogs,

but I get the hint and head outside, leave

the fly-wire door a few words ajar.


Then I reach up, grab a bloody great

piece of sky, lay it flat across last-week’s

barbecue trestle-top. “Look here,” I say,


“over here.” Through the veranda dust

and beetle wings, I can tell she thinks

I’m joking, just inventing all this shit.


So I take a slice of moon and polish it

with my breath. “Look, here,” I say again,

“here.” Behind the screen, she whistles,


and I reckon maybe it’s working, yes,

maybe I’m in with a chance. So I

collect a handful of stars, the brightest


in my zodiac (Achernar, Betelgeuse, Alpha

Centauri; Sirius, Formalhaut, Canopus),

until the hinges creak, swing wide open,


until there she is, not a bit surprised, and,

before I know it, constellations fall to my feet,

five fingers of moonlight swell her breasts.




Here is a video version of the poem, as well as the rest of the sequence…