The Rorschach Inkblot Test
The image is meaningless.
In 1921, in Herisau, Switzerland,
a man named Hermann Rorschach
placed drops of ink on a sheet of paper
and folded it in half to make an image
of absolute ambiguity
and beauty. You can see
the paths the ink chose under the pressure
of human palm, the furrows
formed by the evaporation of water,
the enclaves of color within
the stunning symmetry of form.
In the test,
you must answer
what the image might be.
There is no limit in what you can say.
The answer is taken down
as long as it is produced by you.
The basic idea of this
is that your mind will struggle
to find a design beyond accident,
as men name constellations
or believe in destiny,
and this reveals you.
In the inkblot,
you see the hide of a wolf,
a flowering cactus,
clouds pierced with light
above Hell’s Kitchen,
the diapers of your father
who is dying of cancer,
muted, grayscale explosions
over Baghdad, Raqqa, Gaza
you watched on TV, eddies
of ketchup your daughter left
on the dinner plate.
On the page, you see
the exhaust of your own youth,
hearts carved on trees with a car key,
the seraphic blur of a McDonald’s sign
as you tore down the interstate
starved for purpose.
In your mind,
the illusion comes alive.
It pulses like a broken light.
Like a child waking from a nightmare,
these words claw at your hem
in search of life.