It's chess of sorts but
reeks of you--
the hand carved emerald rook, for one,
and so many Black & White squares
that tiptoe like many a patio stone
between our warring minds.
I think of rollaway mats
lepers use to beg on,
habitually to die on
or marked cards that
outside castle walls
dicers' oaths
must originate from.
I am having trouble
keeping the pieces straight.
I mean, you're White
& concluded the beginning of the end
with first move; still, I'm prepared
for nothing short of winning.
Should we discuss this
growing stalemate near
the Bishop's mitre
and exploding gun
or against hungry faces of expendable pawns
raging, as they say, across Seas of Galilee
on that first night of Storms?
And, when pressed during attack,
is it proper logistics
to prepare the drawbridge,
fondle another dart
for a King's crossbow,
then advance at parapets
with scalding liquid,
the oily spillage
of our tongues?