This Way Up
by Penny Boxall
My aim is Australia.
Disregard the obstacles, the fact
that my antipodes is actually
an unlanded Pacific plot; that –
anyway – between me
and Uluru the Earth’s core
pounds like a jealous heart.
I am pulled by my opposite,
determined to meet: get flinging
the matter over my shoulders,
building a slow hill.
I cut into the substandard
cake of soils, rocks, roots
all the way to dinnertime; then abandon
my three-foot depth of ambition.
Unfulfilled, the rain tricks
its way through soil, far-reaching;
infiltrates bedrock and the star
at the heart of the planet;
down until there is no more
˙ssǝuɥɔᴉɹ ǝlqɐuᴉƃɐɯᴉun 'ǝƃnɥ ǝɯos ɟo
ǝɔɹnos ǝɥʇ pǝɹǝʌoɔsᴉp sɐɥ ǝɥ ƃuᴉʞuᴉɥʇ ɹoɟ
uǝʌᴉƃɹoɟ ǝq ʇɥƃᴉɯ ǝɔɐld ʇɐɥʇ oʇ
dɐɯ ou puɐ ʞɔolɟ sᴉɥ ʎq pǝl
ɹǝɯɹɐɟ ǝɥʇ os ;ǝuᴉɯ oʇ ɯɐǝs ɐ sɐ ʇɥƃᴉɹq
pǝǝʍ snᴉoɔᴉuɹǝd ɐ oʇ sǝʇɐlsuɐɹʇ
ʎɹolƃ ƃuᴉuɹoW ˙ɹǝpu∩ uʍop oʇuᴉ uǝᴉlɐ
ƃuᴉpnɹʇxǝ suoᴉlǝpuɐp 'lǝɹɹos 'ǝsɹnd s,pɹǝɥdǝɥs
:ǝɔɐld ǝlqɐʞuᴉɥʇun uɐ oʇ ɔᴉʇoxǝ
sǝʌɐǝl ɟo ƃuᴉɥsᴉɹnolɟ ɐ sǝɹnɾuoɔ
ɥsnq ǝɥʇ oʇuᴉ sʞɹɐds ʇI ˙ʇɐǝɥ
oʇuᴉ ƃuᴉllǝʍ ɐ 'ǝƃɹnsdn
ƃuᴉllᴉʍ ɐ sǝɯoɔǝq ʇᴉ puɐ uʍop
