Fictions at an exhibition
You might choose the bigger picture:
Venus erasing Matariki
with her heavenly contrail.
Or pick the photo where a single
fictional star perturbs
the empirical firmament.
After all, you’re more inclined
to put on history’s weight.
In the political sky, satellite spies.
In the polluted sky, space junk.
Down home, though, we’ve been busy
twirling our torches like poi
on the front lawn, while indoors
in a darkened room are happy couples
swigging beer and swinging
on the moon. By the front porch,
our starry night has painted
a black window, and in the lift’s
three-storey space capsule, we’re
taking turns at playing Māui re-
entering the muffled soundscape
of his goddess-mother’s womb before
she crushes his headstrong fantasy flat
as an aluminium can. No worries though —
you’re weightless here. Just press
108the silver button to release
the seal and you’re back
in the gallery where
the black rubber floors
suit our black rubber souls.
Come on, let’s push the inflatable out
on the night’s wide waters, see
how far it goes.