catapult magazine

I Sleep to Promises of More Games Tomorrow

by Amy Carpenter Leugs

Your black pieces, son,
the empire’s unending march
the grass huts on fire
the village woman’s screams.
You hold the mechanism of power like a lighter
in your hands, flicking while you think,
on,
off,
on.

My white pieces, son,
the stuffy priests trotting in robes
making a big-prayer show
of love-wrestling
you until you
stop
please
stop.

While we play at the kitchen table
the gray sky outside melts smells
of rain on grass through wire screen door
We eat chocolate brown ice cream that is pressed
cold-to-warm
in mouths pondering
the next battle scars to inflict
and genuflect —
I look at your face working, feel
my ribcage lift with breath —
how odd to know both ice cream and
war
with you.