THE RULES OF CHESS

Magnus McDowall

I am visibly languid,

taking smokes from a packet

kept snugly by my breast

I play touch-move:

I’ve played touch-move since

the game was invented in sixteenth-century

India and people wore scimitars

and couldn’t castle 

I am ever-evolving

I am the timeless opening

I am the inevitable checkmate – 

you should have known that

and now you’ve blundered.

Nowadays I play in cafes

occupying what tables I find

with a partner on a

creaking, fidgeting, losing chair.

Two women one table over

are chatting at coffee

and I’m sure they can see

I have rook to b7

I am a master-general

but I worry that isn’t obvious – 

the threat looks great,

his queen looms over half the board

and he strokes his beard with confidence

there are some attacks

even I am powerless to stop.

The girls’ talk points our way

I can tell 

by the crane of their necks

and their teeth

that they know

my back’s against the wall

it’s my move,

I must come out swinging

so I prance, pout, 

peacock a knight 

across the battlefield –

check, a fork,

“a move for the ages!”

cry the newspaper clippings

leering from the wall 

at my hunched opponent

the girls are thinking

I am like Nelson,

or Napoleon,

lover of chess,

only taller.

I have demonstrated clearly

my mastery of pawn structure

and posture,

the nuances of calculation

and the weaknesses in his position.

If I had been at Waterloo,

London would be Londres and

we would all be speaking French.