Zarah Butcher-McGunnigle

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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.

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