Masque of the Red Death 

Poe’s Prince Prospero, at least,  

acknowledged the threat, paid  

respect to his foe. He retreated, yes,  

but he brought furnaces to the abbey’s gates.

He welded the bolts, preparing to make 

merry until the peasants all perished. 

We hung our money, which had never failed 

to protect, over the door and bid our children 

to roam the hallowed halls as freely as before. 

The contagion outside continued to roar. 

Slicing like glass into lungs of the weak, 

minorities, the poor. We followed our whims

with storytime and plays. Football games, 

marching band, life as a parade. Our whiteness  

an armor used to deflect. But Poe knew,  

you know, and I do, too, that disease seeps 

as easily as hate into our skin. And today, 

with two students, it begins. 

By Aimee Noel