Poison Maiden - C.318 Bce (Pataliputra, India) Poem by Julie Emerson

Sucking sugarcane,
the girl is crossing the moat,
passing pillars with silver
birds, entering the palace.

Think of the king, prone, massaged with rollers of ebony,
ringed by women archers, fed the professor's potion -
each day a drop of poison to foil the enemy.
The professor writes recipes for leprosy, fever
caused by powdered leech and jimsonweed and cow
dung mixed with mongoose tongue in a cobra's mouth.
Death took the queen at dinner, after one bite;
the prince was born fast with a blue spot on his brow.

The girl is still in ignorance
of the army's six branches:
soldiers, horses, elephants,
supplies and ships and chariots.

The professor burns frogs, testing toxic smoke
to aim at enemies, using every means to an end -
each day a drop of poison to bring immunity.
The people bet on dogs, he predicts the economy.
With sixty four gates to the city, how many
foreigners sneak in? A girl is intercepted.
A pale-skinned virgin with a tuneful walk, too
pale, unbound breasts, skin slightly blue.

The girl doesn't kill
insects, eat roots
or risk a Jain rebirth
in eight levels of hell.

From the country of Nanda, the girl is a gift to the king,
she tells the professor. Unaware, she must be,
each day a drop of poison was given to produce
a poison maiden: one kiss and the enemy
will die. He appreciates her waist, the irony.
He won't disturb the king, being fitted in the softest
cotton, and sends the girl to the elephant-riding Porus,
the tall ruler whose death will hand him the Valley.