Chess Match

There are a million ways to lose a chess match, But only one way to win... That's not true. It just sounds good, profound, like tautology. I like that one. Tautology. Checkmate. Shake hands. End game. That's how you win and lose. Or that's what it looks like, the victory and the defeat, but the how is in the play of the open field, what the pieces do or go or be on contrasting black and white or darkwood and lightwood or unstained and stained glass tiles beneath the martial situation. Or the game is in us. In the gap between us that we, respectfully, share. The alternating light and dark of quiet and talk, of what we plan for and what we expect, of what we hide and show, of what we know and don't know and what we pretend not to know, of great stretches of static inaction intempted by sudden motion, holding, pull back, resolve, attack—or the natural disaster of violent wind. The piecemeal bodies lie, silent, the configuration, forgot, In either case, there is something that cannot be taken back. There are other loose ends to this metamorphosing:. a draw—worse than a loss in a way, nobody wins, the captured pieces—how are they treated or tortured, or are they dead? the pieces' species—capabilities, government, religion, architecture, horses There are strategies, plays with names. But I feel blindly in poetry and chess, and in love. Phone note I wrote while you stepped out for a smoke (after we spoke): When I can say how I feel, even though it is about something that seems to thwart what we have, I feel purged and lighter. From where I sit and feel (or don't feel and inch towards a nervous breakdown here and there with the help of everything else about life), the more cancerous force for division is the deception, and how it twists me inside and makes me wince and withdraw. Being vulnerable makes me feel closer to you, but I often find what I said to have driven you away, heavy, as if you've taken every pound I've lightened myself of. So, I don't speak. This feels like an impasse in chess where only one person can win, or none, but I don't want the game to end, and I don't want to lose, and I don't want to win over you at your expense. I feel lousy to have written you so little poetry, and for it to come out like this. It's easier to entertain poorly wrought, stupid metaphors, like that the poetry I write for you is the living of my life (I say something similar about my prayers—whoever's board I'm placed on must find me quite lazy, indeed) It's been a while since I've played chess with you. We should do it again sometime. Love, Chris