{"id":95668,"date":"2016-03-16T18:45:57","date_gmt":"2016-03-16T22:45:57","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/?p=95668"},"modified":"2016-03-17T10:31:00","modified_gmt":"2016-03-17T14:31:00","slug":"the-unnecessary","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2016\/03\/16\/the-unnecessary\/","title":{"rendered":"The Unnecessary"},"content":{"rendered":"
\"\"<\/a>

Adam Marian Pete, On the Way<\/i>, 1994.<\/p><\/div>\n

Karen Murai\u2019s poem \u201cThe Unnecessary\u201d appeared in our Spring 1990 issue<\/a>.\u00a0<\/em><\/p>\n

A shoe full of water left on a porch,
almost menacing like a swing
that begins to move by itself.
So unnecessary and yet you\u2019d
hate to move it. It seems to
have a purpose, it snatches
from you something like open-
mouthed sleep. Though it\u2019s really,
only, just sitting there
like a hand in a lap.
Funny how the unnecessary
can seem so important,
expanding, contracting,
cleaning itself. Whatever it is,
it won\u2019t let us in. It folds
inside itself like a dying star,
in a way it\u2019s superior, as
original as every murder.
You\u2019d like to take it home somehow
and set it on a table, but
you collide with its intentions,
you\u2019d tickle it to nothing.
Better just to walk by.
It\u2019s an accident seen at a
distance, just a curl of smoke
high in the sky.
Walk up the steps and let the
screen door slam behind you.
It will be something you mention.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

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