The nose (is) half a foot long, shaped like a beak, filled with perfume…
—Charles de Lorme, chief physician to Louis XIV and designer
of the protective clothing worn by plague doctors.
Picture his visit from the perspective
of the one presumed condemned—
a rat-a-tat-tat—the scrunch and creak
of head-to-toe goatskin approaching,
and then, when he enters, the fevered thought—
how you weren’t expecting death
to have a beak and spectacles
or such a distinct perfume—is that
clove, cedar, vetiver—could it be
a hint of myrrh? The medico della peste
would demur, continuing to rifle through
his swag of talismans and tinctures,
his charms—a dead toad threaded
onto a necklace, a baby’s fingernail, or
a pebble, resembling a heavenly intercessor,
if tilted towards light. He’d palpate
the afflicted with a purpose-built stick,
or sometimes beat them senseless,
to expedite their entry into heaven.
Then, having listed the names
of the afterlife’s newest inductees
he’d trundle blithely on to spread news
and buboes to the next town,
and the next. And yet, we resurrect him
annually, the medico della peste—
at carnivale, he’s always
rounding one corner or another
among the crumbling Venetian facades,
that beak emptied of everything
except the damp heat of his breath.
It’s as though we call back some
unassuaged god, half-avian—as though
we wish to settle all our debts
by letting him scavenge
through the revellers,
keeping any he can catch.
Poem
Medico della Peste
Chloe Wilson