I step on an opposite.
The game has begun.
One fat bishop, stinking of overripe cheese,
grins and leans toward me,
hurriedly undos my bun but–
Flash– Too much murder to do.
He is off, those in his path melting like butter.
One rook, dark blood on her hands,
Halts, sees me.
In a nose wrinkle, I am discarded.
I skip through an opposite.
Peter the knight is there, I wave hello.
He waves back, bloody mouth, falls.
Silverware clattering, machine-like.
I move on.
One of a different type sees me, tries to lunge.
She misses, bun flying everywhere,
Sweat and frustration transform her.
The game makes us beastly.
Suddenly, she is gone. The sun.
Her crown a brilliant ray,
Her smile the moon–untouchable.
Is this dream? Her dark hand extends,
towards mine and then–
Death of a star must not be in vain!
I skip through the opposites
There will be blood melting this board
The clatter of flesh like the knife
Golden pillow gone,
The king stirs.
His smile is bleu cheese,
His crown from Walmart.
“Don’t hurt, sweetie.”
Suns don’t get called sweetie without consequence.
My blade flashes;
he fully awakens
and admits defeat from me,
Angeline Hamilton, the author of the poem Pawn, is 13-years-old. She enjoys spending her days reading, watching her cat Compass be adorable, and playing violin. She has been writing poems and stories for school, friends, and family since second grade.