He makes a move, waving his arm in a
dramatic motion over the board and crying
“Check. Your move.”
I turn away from the book in my hands,
Regeneration by Pat Barker to survey
the board and determine what moves are left
to make.
“Why did you move that there?”
I ask, pointing to his latest move trying
to understand his motivation, to comprehend
his plan, his strategy in this game.
“Don’t be so cliché,”
he replies, picking up his blade and
sharpening it to a fine point, ready to reap
what he took the time to sew,
“Make your move.”
I look into his eyes, the black hollows
that recess into the inner machine of his
skull only to find a light within, some candle
flickering, beckoning me on to
make a move.
The snakey fire disappears, and my eyes focus
on the board, on the pieces before me.
Do I move something powerful, try to strike
head on, or do I move a lesser piece and
outflank him?
“Why do you play this game with me?”
he asks, throwing down his knife in frustration,
“Always with me, this game, this game.
Do what you must, make the only move
Available to you.”
“Why do you play this game with me?”
I ask, throwing down my book in frustration,
“If you already know what move I can make,
what I’m going to do, what’s the point?
Why play? What if I refuse?”
He laughs, a deep laugh that echoes
throughout the generations, a hearty laugh
that causes the tides to go out, that sends
lone dogs across the ages into flusters.
He laughs at me.
“Foolish mortal, who do you think
I am? Who do you think you are?”
He says with a wicked grin,
“This game was made for us, out of your bones,
out of my blood, out of our skin.
You play for life.
You play to make yourself live again.”
“I refuse.” I say as I stand and turn
towards the poppy field, with the intention
to skip away to brighter pastures,
but I find I am caught, his knife
is lodged in my foot.
“Sit down,” he says, and I comply,
“You have no choice. You chose
to begin this game, you have to accept
the consequences. You must play to win
though you know in your heart
you will lose.”
“Who’s to say?” I ask, as I pick up a piece
(I decide to flank instead of strike)
and place it down on the board,
“Check.”