Rorschach

I typed this in two columns, with what is below - the real poem - in one column, and in the other column, it was typed backwards. A pain in the ass that didn't even really work out because ylfrettuB isn't an exact reflection of 'Butterfly.' The 'B' just isn't really backwards. Blogger won't let me format what I turned in for assignment, but, I'll have you know, the whole things started with the idea of creating a Rorschach poem, structurally. I had something and then was like, this is a terrible poem. In which case the form is just a gimmick. So, I had to rewrite it to make it a poem that could entirely stand on its own. So, this is the poem in plain format, not 'Rorschach.'


Card IX

On intake he whistled at my history
of diagnoses and misdiagnoses, admissions and transfers,
lockdowns and commitments and discharges, follow ups and
crises, medication tapers and medications changes, moods
and delusions and fears and lacerations and hallucinations.

Every PhD and PsyD and MD
wants to play a game with
those cards; wants us to
give them something to hope
for in these fluorescent
and lithium worn halls of Bedlam.

So what if I
see a butterfly?
Butterfly
butterfly
moth
Gene Simmons
butterfly
butterfly
pearl necklace
butterfly
entrance to medieval lost town
butterfly

So what?

Card IV, patient expresses fear of men,
fear of authority. Card VII, patient
with possible narcissistic tendencies
relating to femininity, possible
internalization of archaic gender roles,
possible fear/ love/loathing of mother.
Patient unwilling to expound upon thought
processes. Tangential. Uncooperative.

This one, he wanted me to be the psychotic
poetess of his post-doc Menninger rotation.
An Anne or Sylvia or John; someone he could
give a placebo; someone whose serotonal
misfirings he could save in the name of art
at the cost of her basic hygienic functioning.

Why doesn’t card IX tell him? That
I can’t put an English subject and
verb together when those voices get
me to where I’m naked behind the
refrigerator because threads tell
secrets that make my skin red and
only the hum of the machine is salve
enough to stop me from scratching
through frivolous skin to the yellow
notecards wrapped around my bones.

Who is the psychotic
when he wants those
notecards and I just
want to daily eat and
shower and sleep?