Endgame in Exile
## I
Eleven, Tehran's burning heat—
sleeve rolled high against the summer's weight,
the Revolutionary Guard's fist finds my face
like a question mark carved in flesh.
A G3 rifle barrel cold against my cheek,
the hammer clicks, a seed of fear in my chest.
First lesson in the game:
some moves are forced on you.
## II
Sixteen, when the classroom door bursts open,
militia boots thunder across worn linoleum.
"Routine inspection," they announce,
rifles slung like exclamation marks.
Her smile hidden in chemistry pages,
between formulas I will never solve.
Under their watchful eyes, I tear
her photograph into snow,
swallow winter whole, paper dissolving
on my tongue like the prayers my mother whispers before dawn.
Thirty pairs of student eyes witness
Each fragment asks: Where do you plant what they uproot?
## III
Seventeen, sketching battlefields in chalk dust,
bishop seizes pawn, knight topples rook—
this silent war drawn on blackboard squares.
Until the principal's shadow crosses the board,
makes us eat the chalk, piece by piece,
dreams turned to powder in our mouths.
In my country, even chess was forbidden.
## IV
Twenty-two, at Islamic Azad University,
playing Tehran's champion across sixty-four squares.
My mother's voice echoes: "Be careful."
Security arrives like checkmate,
banishes us both, the king unmoved.
Pieces abandoned in formation,
prayers lost at a border checkpoint.
## V
At departure gates, each passport stamp—
a square crossed off the board.
Chalk dust in my pockets,
her photograph's winter cold on my tongue,
the weight of unfinished games
pressing sharp within my voice.
## VI
This is the endgame:
suspended between the country that expelled me
and the one that does not yet know
I still dream in Persian.
In the space between what is lost and remains,
I learn what every chess master knows:
sometimes the only winning move
is to begin a different game entirely.
Copyright ©
Saeed Koushan
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