Bebop on the Board

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.