Negative Transfer
By Lauren Shapiro
If I admire the catastrophe
would it cease to be a catastrophe?
They say crystals open up new
avenues of thought when paired
with dim lighting and a certain
kind of spa music. In other words,
to forgive someone, spend some
time in a steam room. You know,
I can mail you a puddle any time—
you just have to destroy
the packaging. But also, why
would you want a puddle?
And why would you want to
hold a mirror to your mind's
distant, angry pumping? At night
I read the beautiful poetry about
insomnia written by the insomniac
poet and think, everything refers
back to itself. I try meditation
and imagine my father rising
out of a majestic purple flower,
turning into an angel. When
I open my eyes, all I see is
a dinky plastic waterfall. To resist
metaphor you must have an iron
will. When the neighbor mows
his lawn in his shorty pajamas
at five a.m., he's just mowing
his lawn. The animals and
shrubbery are just being
animals and shrubbery. I watch
the student competing with himself
for most productive self. I watch
the pets in the pet store, lined up
like beers. Is it possible not to have
a meltdown? Did I mention I've
tried meditation? When I was
finished, I had tearfully forgiven
my father. Then I drank some
lemon water and ate some healthy
spa snacks. In art, the first thing
you learn is the importance
of negative space. In philosophy
it's the distinction between
negative space and nothing.
The spa lady smiles and hands me
a water bottle for the road. Real
forgiveness is like a puddle's
slow and muddy evaporation.
If I keep picking bits of thread
from the sweater, eventually
the whole thing will disappear.
Copyright Credit: Lauren Shapiro, "Negative Transfer" from Arena. Copyright © 2020 by Lauren Shapiro. Reprinted by permission of Cleveland State University Press Poetry Center.
Source: Arena (Cleveland State University Press, 2020)