the church took off its head. 
three flowers, one in each of my hands. 
the box sinking and suddenly yellow feathers 
bursting from my chest. 
you were exactly like yourself 
except for the hair and the clothes and the eyes. 
question the doorway. 
I could see the lonely backs of birds. 
the world was a word, repeated until swollen. 
rain hurtled its unoriginal grief. 
I was stolen, I must return to my planet. 
two of my hands were in my pockets 
and the other one was sad. the holy eye fainted me. 
my appendix was saying something about 
adding everybody together and dividing by a number. 




There were storms and power cuts. 
I was too dangerous for candles. My hands were 
aching, I tried to forget them. I could hardly chop 
the carrots—can you remember how to cook 
corned beef like your mother did? 
Then my knees happened. A terrible way 
to say hello. I could hardly walk. 
An onion halved is an onion shared. You drove 
me to the hospital. Despite my fear 
I still enjoyed driving through the dark. 



Zarah Butcher-McGunnigle is 20 years old and lives in Auckland. She studies English and Psychology at the University of Auckland. Her poems have appeared in journals such as SnorkelLandfall, and Poetry NZ, and are forthcoming in briefColorado Review, and the International Literary Quarterly.