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,
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,
with its golden and red glow.
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