Jeff Young

John the Baptist of Mardi Gras

Burial

His voice rings out with fevered admonition

Against the stone facades along Toulouse

And Rampart streets. The crowds of revelers

Meander near, besotted and bedecked

In purple, green, and gold. Some step away

To dodge the prophet’s gaze, avoid his hot

And wrathful words, while others stop to jeer 

At him, the red-faced saint of Mardi Gras. 

The din of thousands–tumult of feet and howls–

Contends with strains of trumpets, trombones, cymbals,

And raspy rattling voices. He stands tall;

The crush of bodies makes a way for him.

“Repent,” he shouts, “for hell awaits ye all!

You drunkards, fornicators, and you thieves,

Turn back now—please!—while there’s still time for y’all.

For—quick!—He comes to clear his threshing floor!”

There’s spittle in his beard and mustard splotched 

Above his paunch, right where the ring of sweat

Descends below his neck. He wears no vesture

Of camel hair, no leather belt. Instead 

He’s clothed in Sansabelt short pants and shod

In black orthotic shoes, compression socks

Pulled up knee-high—his fingers taut in fists

To hold aloft a six-foot wooden cross. 

Along the crossbar painted words in white

Interrogate the throng: Is this the end?

A moment later he finds out himself:

His eyes roll back, his face expressionless.

His fingers loosen. Like a tree that’s felled

The cross slips free and topples to the ground.

The prophet teeters, too, then buckles forward.

His face slaps flat against the wooden cross.

The revelers all halt in shock and silence.

The masses stand and gaze in disbelief.

But no one goes to him, save one–a stripper

En route to work. She kneels and cups his head

Atop her lap. She looks up at the throng

With eyes of wonder. She beholds within

Them all a kingly fear, some threat of loss.

She sees their festal merriment as dross

That mars the beating life within them.

Out of the depths of childhood comes a hymn,

A song her mother used to sing, its words

Archaic, strange; something about the birds

That God gave to his desert people–food

For his beloved who complain. This brood,

She thinks, is not unlike that people, hard

Of heart and dull of ear. Without regard

To her indecent clothing, nor the dead

Man cradled in her lap, she weaves a thread

Of notes, and she begins to sing that song,

And in her soul repents of all her wrong.

For Robert Simpson, January 6, 2021

Red-rusted heap, the heaved earth

Stands against this grave interstice,

Between here and gone, the hereafter’s hatchway.

This plain box of plied pine

Carries you—a crowning cradle

Now handled by heavy hangers-on.

Time pools like liquid silence,

Stills the biding sorrowed guests,

Waiting. Waiting—for what?

For a release from fear?

For the writhing weight of wellness?

Like stones we stand, solemn.

Now pipers play; the priest prepares.

The soil strikes the nose like scotch,

Earthy, peaty, pine needles, pears.

At three we start. Signum Crucis.

The priest prays, intones Asperges Me,

Sprinkles water, blessing lamentations.

It’s done today as you determined.

Friends—men—manually remit

Your remains to the earth.

Hands—shoulders like wheeled pulleys—

Lower, slowly, the long straps.

You descend, our blessèd burden.

We stand our ground and gasp good-byes.

Gathered beggars, we bend, barehanded,

Clasping clumps of crimson clay

And cast them down upon your casket.

A violent love—verily and holy—

Like a weaver who severs the last thread.

Jeff Young is a poet, writer, and teacher. He is the author of Around the Table with The Catholic Foodie: Middle Eastern Cuisine (Liguori Publications, 2014) and of the Savoring Sundays column in Catholic Digest. His writing has appeared in numerous print and online journals, including Joie d’Vivre Journal, Legatus, CatholicMom.com, among others. He resides in Covington, Louisiana with his wife and children.