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Medico della Peste of New Orleans 
by Christina Ciufo 

Behind black steel gates

where white marble mausoleums

houses forgotten families

of socialites and gentlemen,

rotting peacefully in wooden caskets,

shrouded in ivory satire.


Old charcoal graves,

cracked and denigrated,

weeping willow moss shrouding the past

in its bayou veil,

the dead slumber within

their melancholy solitude,

away from the living.


An onyx equivocal silhouette,

wide-brimmed hat,

and protruding bird-like nose casing against

the mausoleum’s white marble.


He carries his oak staff with

black cased iron pentagram on its top,

still burning

with its golden and red glow.


Lavender, green,

and golden beans flung into

whiskey and rum aroma

into the chaotic streets

while royal purple, golden confetti twirls.


Purple and gold checker

dressed jesters with gleeful carnival masks,

oblivious to the equivocal

Medico della Peste, secluded within the narrow,

damned alleyway between two white French quarters.


His long-raven cloak,

ghostly touches wet, charcoal stones.

His emerald eyes through the hollow holes

of Medico della Peste,

illuminate delight and vicious,

like a copperhead snake watching through the wet marshes

of the bayou, examining each person,


by Bloody Mary’s crimson lips

and hearty tunes

of trumpets and saxophones.


A grimiest and eerie grin upon his pale face

catching sight of his next one,

delirious and tightly grabbing onto

their side, feeling their pancreas erupting 


Aroma of juniper berry, ambergris,

rose pedals, and Myrrh permeates, while 

his otherworldly osculate

upon their rosy cheeks.

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