Chess in the afternoon glare, each square a kingdom.
Sunlight leans over the board like an irritated instructor.
A broken speaker coughs Coltrane into couch cushions and shag carpet.
My back aches from time and miles.
She sits across from me, staining her fingers with blackberries, dark as confession.
She licks her thumb.
Doesn’t look up.
Rook slides right. Knight whinnies and retires to the side.
On the news, France falls again. Italy folds.
Her pink polka-dot dress climbs higher as she leans forward.
Strategy disappears. The pawns trot forward, small bodies built for sacrifice.
The queen waits— quiet, thick with violence, bloody intention.
From under the dirt, Charlie Parker blows through coffin wood and tree roots, amber notes pounding into bone, into memory.
The room smells of fruit and sweat, dust hanging in the light.
She looks at me, smiles that predatory grin, and says, Check.
The floorboards hum a long bebop sadness.
They are playing jazz in hell. We wait.
Brilliantly penned, Thomas. Into the book it belongs! Excellent write with incredible storytelling and amazing imagery my friend. Dig the jazz references and the mention of Coltrane & Parker along with your use of chess terminology. Nicely done. Appreciate you.
Damian
Thanks, my friend.
There are so many layers to this. It’s almost a sultry piece of music accompanied by chess…not the other way around. This is definitely a multiple read piece 😊
tHANK YOU