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
I bite my nails close to skin. This work has eaten out my center, left
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
I tack full into the breeze of their clinical regard. Unconscious narcissism,
My friend agrees to examine my research for merit. We laugh at
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
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
setting off the centerpiece. I am Sabina on whom his affections lie subject