Survival of the Sickest by derek lessard

Darwin falls ill
by appointment
only;
quietly
devastating
nausea plateaus
across the span
of an installment plan.
Can’t have
both,
can
only half-


convenience
of the handicap,

almost nears
a laugh,
for largely part
of being sick
is the need
to prove
you are

the sickest.
“I’ve the power to kill,
but I haven’t
the power
to die,”
a recluse said

to half her life

that stood
a loaded gun-
staying safely,

simply-
in her bed,
staying sick,
cuddling her biography.


Some live

so others
may die-


yet, how can we

be any different,
all seated
in this room,
waiting
for a God

we fear,
asking why
we were

chosen
to be
here?
Now opens
the door

to the
upstairs

meds room,
fountain spilling

from an open mouth,
reluctant shyness
of an eerie winter light-
a secret quiet,
kept-
half-relent
of glimmer’s struggle

through dustcake gathers
on the dimmest glass.


A room,
waiting
for God.
What’s it like,
inside?


Is it silent,
is it loud?


Would I remember

coming out?
I’m afraid.



What’s the something
there,
in the attic-
past the door?
Just what is it

we’re all
waiting for?