A HISTORY OF CHESS
Mark Mitchell
I am still a victim of chess…
—Marcel Duchamp
I was not born
under stone mountains
in Egypt. The broken
pieces they found
belonged to another game.
Different ranges—where
the Ganges still rises—
were my womb. Silent
men in saffron robes
still desired to play at war.
Carved out of soapstone,
out of bone, out of jade—
Men found their shapes
and a woman found
her hidden—but known—power.
Then downstream to cities—
West and east with real
armies. Masters were born, rose,
fell—in France, Russia, New
Orleans. Rules changed
affecting a perfect nothing, until
two old men balance
a sad board on their laps.
They steady pieces when the subway
jolts. They joke the ancient jokes
and are thirsty for tea, for whiskey—
always hungry for war.