A FIRE IN HER BRAIN
Whatever spark or gift I possess has been transmitted to Lucia, and it has kindled a fire in her brain.
—James Joyce on Lucia
You search for the best doctors, try to curb her pain—
still believe there is something you can do.
You blame yourself for the fire in her brain.
Two decades on, her illness is impossible to explain.
Most of what you learn, you already knew, still
you search for the best doctors, try to curb her pain.
As the years drag on, only the few who love you remain.
The rest—too uncomfortable to help see you through.
You blame yourself for the fire in her brain.
You salvage what’s left of a life you can’t maintain,
admonish yourself for what you must pursue.
You search for the best doctors, try to curb her pain.
You cannot neglect the work that keeps you sane—
try to learn what might help her—what’s false, what’s true.
You blame yourself for the fire in her brain.
If you had not listened to their selfish campaign
there would be nothing to repent, nothing to undo.
You search for the best doctors, try to curb her pain.
You will always blame yourself for the fire in her brain.
Duplex Beginning with a Line from James Joyce about His Daughter, Lucia
She must not be left alone in terror.
The world spins sharp and inscrutable.
My daughter’s world spins sharp and inscrutable
while doctors, in their hubris, supply answers.
The doctors only pretend to have answers.
Each failed solution is a slow death.
Constant caretaking will cause my early death.
Since her diagnosis, I am a stranger to myself.
I am a stranger to myself, defined by her diagnosis.
It is impossible to make up for lost time.
The hours of lost time taunt me but, unlike Joyce,
I cannot just close the door and write.
All I want is time to read and write.
But she must not be left alone in terror.
