By Gina Tron

You slinked around my rooks,

slaughtering my army,

anelaces in their backs.

 

We adjourn.

 

Should we play again?

I don’t think so.

Black and white cement tiles,

like us,

too different to be entwined in a fair war.

 

The gray has been executed.

The towers beheaded.

Dead draw.

You’re a dark square

and I’m a clouded hexagon

looking for the white.

 

Basque chess.

A torn dress.

 

Did you ever hold Alekhine's gun?

 

I brought the ammunition

but you couldn’t hear me loading it.

 

Battery,

blindfolded empathy,

a deaf piglet grown into a hog.

 

Castling with pigs will only besmirch my crown,

yet we are from the same bloodline,

connected rooks,

no pawns between us

and blood is murkier than the turmoil in the King’s dungeon.

[Read Full Issue]