Dementia Praecox

Poems by Pamela Moore Dionne

I am Persephone, Demeter and Hades: my self, my mother, my subject.
Bleuler disregards my treatise – too unknown – too obscure – a sly subject.

Perhaps he thinks I am bedded by research. He may dare to discourage me,
think it more proper I become the wife of some colleague. I will not play subject.

I bite my nails close to skin. This work has eaten out my center, left me hollow,
blunt-edged. All that I am or ever will be is tied to a thesis built on an untried subject.

I sob aloud and am a Siren. Colleagues sail mesmerized round my rocky gasps.
I tack full into the breeze of their clinical regard. Unconscious narcissism, I subject.

My friend agrees to examine my research for merit. We laugh at Bleuler's
masquerade as analyst. I am shocked by my disloyalty to our derided subject.

In visions, my father tells me I am here to deliver the world from Chaos as did Eurynome.
Tortured by doubt, I run to my friend. He edits the paper, takes over my subject.

My friend says we must take care not to slip back into our dangerous love.
I know what this means – his writing first. His work must be my subject.

My friend tells me I am his medallion – all other admirers merely pearls
setting off the centerpiece. I am Sabina on whom his affections lie subject