Schrodinger's Lesion

Their numbers drawn, the backwards lottery Almost none were aware they were playing Assaulted by the poisons that save them Hairless children with steroid-swollen cheeks Feared stigmata of chemotherapy Daily valiance, heroism unsought Magic bullets are a relative thing Modern wonder within the foulest curse Not many years ago, a death sentence Now, survival rate of eighty percent It’s miraculous, but if it’s your child Then it’s a slow round of Russian Roulette Our own bullet burn unforgettable Swelling in his eye, excised then regrown For those of you playing along at home Regrowth is a very ominous sign Mucous Associated Lymphoma Our newest demon, bane of our baby Based on looks, it’s sixty percent likely The microscope will have the final word Sword of Damocles hangs for six long weeks As a succession of pathologists shrug I can do the math much quicker than that It’s sixty percent times twenty percent, Probability times mortality Twelve percent chance he will not live five years Our sweet baby boy, turned budding young man A gun with eight cylinders, one cartridge Facts melt like lead into a bullet mold Neither dead nor alive, Schrödinger’s cat, His fate, an unseen quantum paradox Not resolved until we open his box And create life or death by witnessing. Savoring the taste of each day as a Maddening flavor of infinity As we wait for a loud click or a bang Finally the word arrives: no cancer. Spared, this fate of others, no good reason Not a part of God’s plan for us this time 5/22/16 © Thomas W. Quigley