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.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
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 Snorkel, Landfall, and Poetry NZ, and are forthcoming in brief, Colorado Review, and the International Literary Quarterly.