I wrote:
"Your photo actually led me here, the summer of 1968, me in Dacca, East Pakistan. I don't know why. I am grateful, though, both for your image and that British MD who supplied both diagnosis and poison. To this day I confound hepatitis type C blood tests. They misconstrue the hepatic scarring left behind by an invasion of Asian amoeba and the arsenic which killed them." Thanks for your image. I am using it with this poem today and of course giving you full creds.
Why He Made Me Eat Arsenic
The world was never
what we meant for it nor I
as if my liver
grew great colored spots,
sending strange spores out to play
among the dust motes
strewn by sexual
vegetation clinging to
the verge of all things.
My belly really
ached, swollen, dissipated,
the large red iron
ball held in the bag,
the center of David's sling
readied for hurling.
Nothing left for it
but to eat wafers maybe
would work but half kill
me along the way.
September 25, 2012 6:02 AM
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The chicken crossed the road. That's poultry in motion.