Pap by Carolyn Creedon

The whole thing was necessary. But for me,
up here on the third floor, each nerve
every day already humming down each synapse
give me valium like prisoners banging their trays,
a song on steel, it was hardly the thing.
But it was what to do, and needed, the goddamn
deck was falling to pieces, rotted from the inside
out so that each day I listen to the workers walk through
my living room, all whistles and Budweisers and dusty
boots, and hammers and miter-saws that dive in
like bees, and it really was necessary, what shouldn’t have
been there, what is rotting, or written on a womb like
a word, or a doctor’s number a year ago on a card
I never called, whose name I don’t remember
though he went right through me but didn’t get it
all, sewed me crooked, washed me almost clean
like a dress with a wine stain, or a sweater in danger
from one loose thread. It really was necessary. I miss
that goddamn deck. I want to ask you if you miss it
out of me, if I am the same, if I am still necessary, if
I am still here. I sing something half-remembered to drown
the sounds of the men and the saws and all the things that are
almost all there. I sing to sink the wreck.

From: Creedon, Carolyn. “Pap.” The Massachusetts Review, vol. 51, no. 3, 2010, pp. 561–561. JSTOR, www.jstor.org/stable/25750520.

Date: 2010

By: Carolyn Creedon (1969- )

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