This Game.

The pieces have weight to them.
They move like dinosaurs slow crawling across the board.
They have a woman’s initials in permanent marker on the felt on the bottom.
AH. Revelation. AH. Turned over and read. AH.
Set down in two straight lines forgotten.

Until he takes your queen with his bishop.
Until his rook corners your king. AH. Again.
Laying on its side. The head of a warhorse.
AH. A pack of pawns hips bent.
A stolen board. Inherited hoard.
Kings and queens and the rest of us in pieces in between.
A world we like to think we own until the shape
across the table straightens out and checks us.

And that is when the game gets real.
The pieces have weight to them.
Each move grows slow and clunky,
lumbering heavily across the prehistoric board.
AH. Revelation. AH. Turned over and read. Red.
This game. We say we play.
Still contains a crumb of war.

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