The Times We Died
I told her once. I told her. I’ll need to get another Black Hat after you, Friday. Don’t take it personally. I’ll call her Saturday. The Thirteenth finally forgave me in her special sway, storied for clawed climbs.
The first time I died, I drew a rook from torn paper, sheer wool and luck. Death of a fucking Pawn was all it took. I was much older than I am now, but damned and tender still. The Queen died too that night, but We willed her back thro’ history and Her voice echoed, ‘Return King, You’re Well.’
The second time I died was just last night. I have been spacing them out o’er squares’n plastic peaces, you see. Chess in chests, little deaths by slower breaths, here’s the check mates, no, just give’to me. Pushing preening pawns to draw it out, but my Queen’s Herstory’s almost complete.
It started in the heart, fear and dire, ev’ry door my dark. I lashed and unleashed my bishops and knights, please children, come home to play. All their choices. Then Job’s ‘visible friends, chipping and biting time, until their bitter end. But they were after all, only your tinned voices. I turned them into starkest colors, because I couldn’t track all my ‘I love yous’ and all of you missing hues, I fell accused by palest clues.
Here come the White ones. Maybe purples or blues. Don’t come crying to me for truth. We are You. Black’s Hats always my favorite, somehow soft and warm. T’empty space I’m vying to fly you, third time’s a charm. See? I held her in that time. No crying, even with poor Sunday in my arms, dying. Let me Saint you Impossible, thousand colors at once, without e’en trying. I’ll tell you how I get back from black. I paint your fading face in fire for fast forwards in time.
I met the Last King just now. Rubbing hands through waves, somehow. He laughed to himself and the damned, tender me felt pity while Newyounger me feels shame. My Pa’s poor pawns paused, at end our stalemated game. We both built Black Hat monsters, broken pieces crammed in closets. But he relented in the end, entranced to transfer hope cross’t a board, decade or three. Once blind, we surrender to see.