Adam Marian Pete, On the Way, 1994.
Karen Murai’s poem “The Unnecessary” appeared in our Spring 1990 issue.
A shoe full of water left on a porch,almost menacing like a swingthat begins to move by itself.So unnecessary and yet you’dhate to move it. It seems tohave a purpose, it snatchesfrom you something like open-mouthed sleep. Though it’s really,only, just sitting therelike a hand in a lap.Funny how the unnecessarycan seem so important,expanding, contracting,cleaning itself. Whatever it is,it won’t let us in. It foldsinside itself like a dying star,in a way it’s superior, asoriginal as every murder.You’d like to take it home somehowand set it on a table, butyou collide with its intentions,you’d tickle it to nothing.Better just to walk by.It’s an accident seen at adistance, just a curl of smokehigh in the sky.Walk up the steps and let thescreen door slam behind you.It will be something you mention.
Last / Next Article