Peering, the darkness pierces our abode.

You told me it was nine.

The damp eyes of a child

Stare longingly into the street-lit black.

 

There is deception amongst the darkness.

I wait for the cold bull 

To emerge from it.

Welcome to our China shop.

 

You’re back, Señor.

It’s too cold to run to you, 

So we wait as you walk to us 

With your Santa-sack.

 

Inside Pandora’s Box

There is a chess set,

Inscripted with a language I can’t read

And such a stoicism I can’t reach.

 

I was baffled by such a grandiose,

Complex thing.

Veiled in thin squares of Mexican wood,

I could feel it looking, poking at me.

 

It was almost talking to me.

It was enticing, scary.

I was a child,

Obsessed with the material things.

 

Times were much simpler then.

I remember you playing with me and that forest of baby pawns.

I didn’t know the rules.

I still don’t.

 

You always played with me, no one else.

Perhaps in secret, you did.

You carved that chess set out of yourself.

Adam and his ribs are jealous of you.

 

O, where is my queen?

I gave her up for the sake of you.

Gold, frankincense, and myrrh, 

The baby gave to God.

 

It wasn’t just her:

Bishop, knight, the other pawns.

I was an addict, hooked

To that horrid game. 

 

Too often I gave up.

I wanted to cry, storm out, inevitably relapse.

But as I turned towards the exit,

You were always there.

 

Your world consumed me.

It scared me.

You dressed me in Isadora’s scarf.

You lodged a chess piece in my throat.

 

You were the matador.

You were the opus.

The picture always escaped me,

But I’m sure it was splendid.

 

You never expect to come home to that.

A part of me died, but you 

Were burning, alive.

I knew this was the end.

 

I began to cry out.

Why end like that? Why live like this?

You might as well have been dead.

My only souvenir, the chess set.

 

I could barely see it.

O God, resurrect me.

You coaxed me like an old, steaming Aztec.

Yes, 

 

Huitzilopochtli, it is I.

Would you like my tona?

Too late, you already took it.

I lay dead on the chessboard altar.

 

And him, Moctezuma.

No one knows where he went.

No one knows where you went. 

Perhaps he choked on the roble chess set.

 

It’s my turn now.

I want to kill you.

I want to writhe in that sweet blood-nectar.

I want to, but The Scream terrifies me.

 

I will avenge you.

I will knock your king down.

“Checkmate,” I will cry.

I will always cry.

 

I will always love you.

I will always cry for you

With a pained Niagara, 

And The Scream.

 

O, The Scream. It pains me.

It knocks the pieces off their perch

In desperate agony.

I am in the sand reaching out to you

 

Like dust particles in a baby’s hand.

Take me, Glaucus, 

With your sandy hooks, 

Your shiny knife.

 

Rip me apart and let The Scream escape.

Please, please, please, I cry. 

Why won’t you do it?

Why leave it to me— I don’t want this.

 

And so, I take that gorgeous knife, 

Raise it like an Aztec,

And plunge it into your eggshell heart,

My tears swept into the blue abyss.

 

That chess set now stands in a corner, 

On a shelf,

Dusty, with pieces missing.

Still, they all lead to you.