Below are two versions of the same poem. The original is first.
I wrote the new version as part of a creative writing assignment. Which do you like better?
Warm you back up if the Dementors
I’ll weave a net from my fingers and hair
And string it from Mt. Everest to give you
You brought a crystal chess set to the park.
Said you wanted to play, but when a
Retired grandmaster with a white beard and
Cardigan took your pawn, it fell over and
Shattered. And you shed a tear and
It splashed over the weeping shards,
And you didn’t mean for your hand
To knock over the King but you didn’t
Mind it either. And when the bearded
Man left for a game of backgammon
With a cancer kid, it was only fate
That I walked by with a tube of
Krazy Glue and a book on how
Chess pieces shatter. I sat
Across from you at the concrete
Table and opened the book to page
185: Mending a bruised ego.
You picked up piece #39742
But I shook my head when you
Asked for the glue. That piece goes
On #11, not #1269213, I told you.
You asked how I knew so much
About repairing chess pieces,
And I gave all credit to the book.
Then we both raised our eyebrows,
Because we realized the page we were on
I knocked over your queen when I
Moved to grab piece #2912478.
I tried to hide the brokenness with my hand
But you noticed the blood and the smile
Like the one I had when I woke to find
The sun was still on sabbatical.
And you took my hand and smiled too, and didn’t
Mind the smear of red I left on you.
Then it was my turn to cry: when I
Realized I couldn’t be everything I heard
When I was alone in the dark. But it’s okay,
You said. You have chocolate too,
White chocolate. And some days it will
Be sweet and some bitter and some sour.
Like mine. It’s okay, you said. A net
Made of two kinds of hair is more than
Twice as strong. The water is inside
Your eyes now, swirling like the reservoir
Drain out at Lake Dixon—like a toilet, but
That’s a bad image. I look down at the
Pawn and find it isn’t broken anymore.
The board shrinks to fit in your pocket.
You ask if I’m cold. I nod.
So you move to put your arm around me.
Chess - May 2018
You were the quintessential American Girl
I watched from the coarse grass and shade of an oak tree:
All smiles and idealism and red hair bows
And frilly, knee-high white dresses to let flow
In spring breezes. All hope and no common-sense or realism.
Your name could have been Chelsea, maybe Katie or Lindsey
Or anything else we call a “white people name”
These days. You were someone I could have met
Walking down Main Street in Freedom, USA,
But instead, I saw your sun-gold hair caress the determination
In your eyes as you strode toward the park’s checkered tables
And the players seated pensively on either side.
You had crystallized your dreams into a chess set,
Told the smirking strategists that your place was the Big Leagues,
The Champion’s Circle along with Bobby Fischer.
Under the spider web shadows of the oak branches,
You stood unshakable in your skills, bellowing a challenge.
Your gaze was the kind of certainty in a child’s
Insistence that they know how to read a psychology textbook.
I had heard something similar from my own mouth
More than once, so I “hmmed” and stared and speculated
When you approached a retired grandmaster wearing a white beard
And a cardigan emblazoned with the phrase “that’s life.”
Noticing your face fall within the first five moves,
I couldn’t help but think his sweater might be a metaphor.
By move seven, you’d tasted checkmate, but not bitten it yet.
In move nine, he took your final pawn with such force
That it fell over and shattered. You shed a tear that splashed
Over the pawn’s shards, and amid the soup of saline
And splintered silicon, the crystal clarity of your dreams
Became cloudy and indistinct. I could see through your eyes
As salt and defeat stung them, as you knocked you king
Aside through the shroud. And though you assured the grandmaster
You didn’t mean to resign, I had a feeling you didn’t mind it either.
When you bowed your head, the bearded man followed suit
Before leaving for a game of backgammon with a cancer kid.
I took your shaking sobs as my cue—after all, I’m the hero
Who wrote the book on broken dreams. Who could help but me?
I sat across from you at the concrete table, a tube of Krazy Glue in hand,
And offered help from a man with more knowledge of chess piece dreams
Than anyone alive. After your heaving chest slowed, you assented
With gratitude through still-sparkling lashes.
By the time I had assembled the pawn’s base, you’d salvaged
Pieces 4,500 and 324, but I refused when you asked for the glue.
Both those pieces go on number 3,755, I told you.
When you wondered how I knew so much about chess piece dreams,
I asked if you’d like to see the book I’d written. At your nod,
I produced a mini Bible-sized journal with tissue-thin pages.
But as I flipped through before turning it to you, I realized
That every page was blank. That I had never written a word.
That I had only mended the pawn base by accident.
You stretched up in your seat, nearly spotted the emptiness.
In my haste to cover the proof of my ignorance,
I flung my arms over the book, and sent your queen tumbling.
You started at the shattering sound, and I scrambled to cover my error.
I slapped a hand across the queen’s new pieces, felt a thousand
Tiny cuts shred my palm, seep sanguine into the saline and silicon.
Staring at the mini sea of blood, tears, and broken glass, I realized
That I would be of no help to you. That my book and your chess set
Were the same—indistinct, overconfident dreams, the only difference
Being that yours were broken and mine were blank. That in my haste to help,
I too was a child “reading” a psychology textbook. It was my turn to cry:
When I knew I knew too little to be the hero you needed.
But you noticed. You noticed the blood and the smile
Like I had when I woke to find the sun was still on sabbatical.
You took my shredded hand and smiled, too, and didn’t mind
The smear of red I left on you. It’s okay, you told me. They say
You shouldn’t meet your heroes, anyway. It’s okay, you told me.
We’ll learn to fix the pieces together, and when we’ve finished,
We’ll write a book together too, one far more beautiful for it. It’s okay,
You told me. The bearded man left a scar, but also a lesson and a message.
Maybe, you told me, gluing dreams isn’t the solution, then threw the bottle
Across the field. Wafts of spring air welcomed the scent of peonies.
Maybe, you told me, we’re to wait until the wind makes dreams anew.
The tendrils of wind wound together to create a dust devil
Amid the mess on the table. I felt the moisture whisked
From my hand and into the cloud of broken glass that swirled
Three feet into the air. When the current subsided, the gold
Of your hair seemed colder, more muted, but not gone—
Transferred to your eyes, which now seemed a twinge wiser.
I looked down at the pawn to find it wasn’t broken anymore.
Neither was the queen. Each, instead, was different, rougher,
No longer perfect but far more pristine. They looked like stained glass,
As they should have—patchworks of their component blood and tears.
Still smiling, you tapped the first page of my book. I looked down
To find that it, too, had changed. A single line now stared back—
One I didn’t write but didn’t mind, either. “Be the hero you can be,”
It said in dark red ink, “Not the hero you think they need.”
I stowed the book back in my pocket. You told me my face
Had fallen, but that somehow, it now seemed more honest.
Setting the pieces in their proper places, I wondered aloud
If you wanted a fair match. You thanked me, nodded,
And shortly won your very first checkmate. After a thousand
More, and a thousand more broken chess piece dreams,
I thought, you’ll be ready to face the bearded man again.
And I’ll be with you every step, filling my barely not-blank book,
Ready to remind you not to pick up the pieces, but to wait
Until the wind makes them unfamiliar, but that much stronger.
