I wrote a book of poems while living in
a federally designated superfund cleanup site.
All around me in the soil were lethal levels of arsenic.
I called the Environmental Protection Agency to ask
if my poetry would be okay. They said they did not
understand poetry but the threat of arsenic poisoning
was quite low. After the book was published,
critics argued that it contained lethal levels of arsenic.
I had tried to convince myself otherwise,
but now I do see arsenic in almost every line.
Where did it come from? The EPA’S current theory
is that the chemical, scattered by winds around
my neighborhood, originated from a pesticide plant
that used to operate nearby. In fact, arsenic was once
commonly used in pesticides and other “-cides.”
It was also once a popular tool for committing murder
because, prior to modern methods of arsenic detection,
its presence was difficult to trace in human bodies.
Interestingly, because the ruling classes valued
discreetness and potency when murdering one another,
arsenic has been called “the poison of kings.”
One year my school’s play was Arsenic and Old Lace,
but all I remember are a lot of murders and a kind
of Panama Canal graveyard in the basement.
It’s possible that my arsenic poisoning began back
then, sitting for so long in the hard wooden seat
of that auditorium. It may be that my arsenic book
is really a summary of many years of bodily failures,
leading me inexorably to inhabit this superfund site.
Yesterday I watched the people in white suits
excavating a yard. One was leaning on a shovel,
smoking a cigarette, and as he exhaled I could see
his lips moving as if he were talking to himself.
I’m pretty sure he was reciting one of my poems.