When I look at a chess game,
I see the limits of Infinity.

What does wind think of the camp on North 7th as it moves
under the overpass- bright blue nylon riffled,

work shirts on a rope, the entry flap breathing,
an old man’s head bent over chessboard, a rook tipping over?

What does wind know? Easy to say - nothing,
to say it knows nothing sweeping the day’s trash

down the avenue. The crawl says: fires in the West;
men with AR-15s; a mother and child face-down in the river;

children in cages, says the rise of this, the fall of that.
We say the wind knows nothing as it drives fire like a blowtorch

across the land. We blame the grid - the lineman, the line -
though we know better. We say the rain inside the wind

knows nothing, as mud swallows houses, houses fall to sea,
floods push through cities, the ocean takes back land.

We say wind and rain know nothing. We say there’s nothing
to do. The wind tussles our hair and goes on.

A tarp snaps. A rook tips. The old man uprights it.
The wind takes its turn.

As the clock of war strikes,
the echo of peace fades
into the dust.
Behold! Emerge eight swordsmen,
with blades all sharp,
shining as light dances in delight.
Two archers atop two horses,
whose hooves beat faster
than monsoon winds.
Two snipers hidden in shadows' clutches,
their eyes like hawks,
fingers tight on the trigger.
A pair of cannons aiming
at the center of the forces,
to the heart of the rival.
The queen, the sorceress,
with the intelligence
to destroy with her dark spells.
Upon the throne,
holding all power,
sits the mighty king.
The troupe of army in two rows,
standing at the edge of the
Chess Board!

The board lies still—eight ranks, eight files,
Each square a world, a thousand trials.
Its checkered face, both calm and cruel,
Waits quietly to play the fool.

The stage is set, the players stare,
Each move a hope, each glance a dare.
They chase the crown, a fleeting throne,
Yet play this game so not alone.

The pawns march on with hearts held tight,
Blind to edges of wrong and right.
The knights vault over doubts and ties,
Twisting through paths that mask disguise.

While bishops slide through shades between,
They blur the line of right and mean.
The rooks stand firm with rigid pride,
Their paths cut sharp, no step to slide.

The queen—so fierce, so fast, so grand—
Wields power none can understand.
The king just shuffles, slow and small,
Yet all would die to guard his fall.

But none ask why this prize they seek—
What worth has power if souls grow weak?
They fight for check, they fall for mate,
They crown the skill, yet praise the fate.

But when the game has run its thread,
All lie the same—still, cold, and dead.
No victor’s cheer, no mournful cries,
Just silent echoes, fading skies.

A silent watcher beyond the frame,
Eyes steady, untouched by fleeting game.
He watches rules with endless flight,
The fragile dance of truth and lies.

Unmoved by moves both thrill and blind,
He holds the truth the young can’t find—
That all their struggle, all their pain,
Is but a shadow, not the reign.

Upon the checkered battlefield she stands,
A sovereign forged by mighty hands.
She moves through fire, wind, and air,
Where king would tremble, she would dare.

The king? He takes but one slow pace,
Yet all the world must guard his place.
She sweeps the board to shield his name,
While he remains a throne, a frame.

She leaps through lines, across the night,
Her strength is feared, her aim is right.
But when she falls oh, silent doom!
A pawn may rise to fill her room.

No grand crown mourned, no songs are sung,
Her courage known but seldom rung.
A lesser piece takes her fading light,
As if her power held no right.

She bled for him, and when she’s gone,
Another stands as if nothing’s wrong.
But if the king should fall in fight,
No pawn can rise to claim his right.

Why must the Queen be thrown aside,
While weaker soul enjoy the ride?
Why can the game not truth confess
That all revolves around her finesse?

So let the rules be drawn anew:
The Queen shall rise as sovereign true.
If she must fall, the crown shall end
No pawn pretend, no false ascend.

The king, if brave, must prove his might,
Or lose the board to equal right.
No longer will her death be cheap,
No longer will her silence keep.

This is the Queen’s game sharp and wise,
No longer masked in king’s disguise.
Let Queen be Queen in full command,
No shadow bound to his demand.

Let every move her story tell:
She ruled the board. She ruled it well.
And now, at last, the game replays
With justice ruled by Queen’s own ways.

Io! Maestro dell'essere,
mente a scacchi,
pronta a muovere la prossima pedina
con apatia e ordine. Ordine.

Non implorerò, mai, di avere
un nuovo paio di occhi
che non vedano in bianco e nero,
magari solo meno ingenui, idioti.

Ormai non mi vedo più nello specchio:
spalle, alzate.
Schiena, inarcata.
Capo chino. Pietoso. Indegno!

** già tutto quello che mi serve:
mani di pietra e velluto,
una fronte, rugosa, che parla,
risate tra il folle, e il nobile. Nobile.

///

Me! Master of being,
chess mind,
ready to move the next pawn
with apathy and order. Order.

I will, never, beg to have
a new pair of eyes
that do not see in black and white,
maybe just less naive, idiotic.

I no longer see myself in the mirror:
shoulders, raised.
Back, arched.
Head bowed. Pitiful. Unworthy!

I already have everything I need:
hands of stone and velvet,
a forehead, wrinkled, that speaks,
laughter between the madman, and the noble. Noble.