Checkmate
Maybe I’ll lick my savage knuckles
or shoot arrows at the sun
And if our anonymous devils dance
after slipping on their potential tap shoes
we might play the waiting game
they’ll click click
away as paparazzi cameras
flash phosphorescent lights and
strip us
down to our Botoxed skin. Maybe our ethereal moon winks
its coy smile as our clouds drip crumbs and I might
vanish in the fog, consuming time.
But if she should flush pink and bittersweet,
dices might roll
—Vegas gambling
with Fate’s silver dollars—
and chess pieces might move forward,
pawns played on black and white squares
hypnotic sea anemones breathing
‘Cause here’s my King and Queen,
they might say,
and they’re Bigger and Better than yours.
But possibly they’re not quite looking at the game,
eyes half-glued to the metal mechanics of
their phones click-clicking like ponies prancing
as they speak revolving words.
Maybe fold forth
copper eyelids salty earlobes
perhaps lick the sugar from the celestial concrete where our shoes
erase our corrupt footprints.
And will we open? maybe.
then suddenly—
Checkmate!
Maybe this overdose
is safely diagnosed
and snapping ribbons frayed
this drug we call love, possibly it’s all about
who might be most comatose,
where we sleep in earbuds, implants, spray tans
and perhaps our time’s running out, and
maybe I’ll count your breaths,
your puffs of silver cigarette smoke that could be
tarring your lungs and lips
as I kiss you I might taste your inner clock
a stopwatch counting down: tick tock:
consuming your time with me,
swallowing, stealing
Checkmate. god’s winning.
Copyright © Carly Schmidt | Year Posted 2011
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