Playing Chess

by Marisa Siegel

I rush into. I beg to take on more then I can or should handle. I don’t factor me in, just objective. I hate math. I never learned how to play chess.

We have a new kitten. Fitzgerald, but practically speaking Fitz. He’s fucking adorable. He also moans and meows all the time. I live in apartment building. I ask my neighbors to turn down music. This is another coincidence.

He is not Bear.

(I wonder about being a girl writing a poetry blog about her cats. I wouldn’t describe the situation that way, but one could.)

This is possible: to die immediately. To cease to exist just short of instantaneously. Also possible is to die too soon. And yes, to die peacefully.

I like that movie about Bobby Fischer with Jodie Foster but I hate chess. When I was younger, everyone assumed I’d play chess. But I never did.

(I am pretending this is about chess.)

If I told you I was terrible at pretending, would you agree? If I asked you who you were, would you tell me the story I’ve already imagined? Do you know there is a preexisting condition?

You probably play chess. You definitely don’t hate math. You have more patience than me, absolutely.

This is not about you. I’m…sorry.

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