Three Poems

Zarah McGunnigle

Even though I agree with you, it hit the spectator like a bullet, it happened to him, I don't really agree with you. Appears straight forward but is it. Used to have a name but now is it. So, not to the same state but to the same flow. Signposts, wrong ones or right ones. The pupil is making a choice and you have told it this. The scene is broken for evidence. Today does so in the film, they should know what will happen and that's accomplished by habit rather than attention. It can't be arrested. It's already changed. Point to a place, for example a note on your desk, where you wrote down the original instruction. Thus a jump from a window is taken as a jump from a scaffold. He knows structure rather than significance. Characters in multiple parts which require assembly. Always follow through, even on a minor infraction, so that they know there is.

Departure, so where it is present it is easy to locate, while contrasting traits of character lead to denouement. Surely it is too early for this. Permission paved with read bricks. Because of the rotation of the earth, an object can be thrown farther if it is thrown west. I, too, am a father, but there are no more eggs, no more bread. When I take history I am listening on one level and observing on another. People who remember it and people who don't, that's the line, there's a difference. Redstart implicit in wives and dead branches. A sequence, she said, in no particular order. I understand the thread but not the pattern on the other side. I would like them to be the end of my own but of course.

Soon, I could leave my body without prompts. The artist's concept of the birth of a star, or I broke my name until the fibres separated and lost their coats. My thirst for windows kept me indoors. My gaze wandered across the suburbs of childhood, faces stammering with shyness, bodies masquerading as furniture. Initial mass and luminosity determine duration, but my sensibility comes to require an object. Here, the word "system" implies a level of certainty that is unwarranted. Some of those memories were not written by me, so they are memos, at home on my desk, but still authoritative. Now, instead of a pupil, there's a screensaver. It was late. The room was empty. A lifetime of sentences which at first glance seem superfluous, but whose value is later understood. One thing leads to a mother. Soon enough, a flock of children came running and tapped on the glass. When I reached the bottom of the stares, I looked up.

Zarah McGunnigle lives in Auckland, New Zealand, and is a student at the University of Auckland. Her poems have appeared in print and online journals such as Otoliths, Snorkel, Poetry NZ, and Colorado Review.