Chess

You moved in patterns,

moral geometry,

with angles sharper than empathy,

measured steps dressed up

in strategy's red cloth,

trying to jump squares

as if this were checkers

and it would win you a crown.

You always chose white

so you'd be sure to always go first,

rules older than mercy, your favorite kind.

I followed.

Quiet.

Diagonal.

Powerless until provoked.

The queen,

only when it served your theater.

You sacrificed pawns,

sermons dripping from your lips.

Suffering always makes

such an excellent alibi.

The bishops sanctified your every strike,

the knights danced lies in cursive Ls,

while you stood idle on the flanks,

Your armor gleaming with secondhand virtue.

In the end,

when the board burned

and the kingdom fell in a whisper,

It wasn't war

or wisdom

that betrayed you,

just a single, sideways piece

that you had overlooked.

That's what happens when rooks

pretend to be kings.

Participant's Poems