God is a Rorschach,
amused hermetic pouring out
soured milk of the white flower
into the needing world,
clouds spreading white ink blots
on a thin, blue parchment sky.
One could lie on their back
for hours, just like children,
and tell stories about their dreams.
If young enough,
they believe their dreams, yet –
believe even more in the shapeshift.
Some see symmetry,
a thunderhead with shoulders,
two armies on either side
bowing and charging along
with manifest destiny winds
into a Manichean cyclone
of opposition and holy war.
Others see love floating lopsided,
grinding, or raining back down
to kiss the open wound from whence
it backward bled, birthing and dying
and birthing again. Some see . . .
no death. Some see . . .
no life. Some see indifference,
gardens growing and pruning,
blossoms shedding their blushing faces
into autumn stalks that stoke
the cold fires of winter.
Some of us don’t notice,
for we are too busy looking ahead,
or down, or even within.
The fact becomes
the modern myth.
But does the Rorschach see us?
Does it see our dreams, and
what of our realities,
like trash day and the smell
of fabric softener, junk mail,
sepia post cards, warm socks,
the spit-up of newborn babies
and small, hidden bits of chocolate?
Not many see those things,
in the Rorschach sky,
and so I say:
God is our greatest self,
in good and in evil,
in myth and biography,
leading our eye
to higher ground,
rooted in us
as manifest possibility:
the most beautiful Narcissus
we will ever see.
— Candice Hershman
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