Portrait of James Joyce on his death bed

Clare Gibb / V Mag at UVA

Portrait of James Joyce on his death bed

So, the sun beamed through the murky  

absinthe. 

Sugar tendrils floating in the glass. 

The washes of green that once ran clear 

finally blurred as  

his words couldn’t summon 

those he held dear. 

Words became empty 

As hands dragged across the numbers. 

He waited, heaving a tearless cry.

He closed his eyes  

once plagued with fire and purgatory, 

waned into a foreign, sanctified ground. 

Dragging himself out of the hallowed dirt  

to now feel the crisp linen against his back 

Born in water and falling in lightning.

Once ‘prized eloquence’ – 

fizzled under the burnt light. 

With a tear rolling down his cheek,

his hand raised  

as if to farewell 

the sky and the earth. 

The tears had long dried,

when the morning light waned through his lids 

as old Jim welcomed the night.