A Wisp of Razor Wire (an encounter)
by Tom Hatch
She was a beauty and sharp with wit
Wisps of poly chromium razor wire
he was caught by her surprising glance
That became a stare long like a hillbilly’s
Worshipful looking at a Benz
Flowing red hair half smile becoming full
of trouble a dance that she wants
To lead but he does then she does
Off, off to another world her long arms
Rope burns undressing him hers already
An expressive empty face
Reaches for hands then his game of chess
He takes her knight she
Angling her bishop she stabs his queen
He does not spare hers either without perfect timing
Pawns are flying slaughtered
Rooks up turned on skin
Gazing at the board then she glares up
Across at him for a very long time
Her stare like the hillbilly at the Benz very slight
Movement of her head very slight, silent slightly
A gull’s glide moving her hand with remaining
Bishop without looking down at the board
Throws her head back sighing
Check mate she screams as his white king is
Toppled onto the floor with the other white pieces
The rooks, knights and bishops covering his dead queen
He looks up at her as the encounter took him
By surprise both shortened of breath
She stands then walks leaving the invited trespasser wisps
Of stained poly chromium razor wire
In her trail saying, shouting “do not ever follow me”
Checkmate!
previously published here by Devlin De La Chapa
“Shh, don’t speak” are the fractured
words, sadomasochistic still frames, segments
of a post-Elizabethan tragedy whispered
into my mouth; remnants of the thousands
lying dead in the fields.
The echo. . .ooh the echo. . .like
a serpents tongue slithering wet
pissing poison into the crevices
of my aching patois; no blood red
shimmering apple could compare.
I drift, and dream of Pontius Pilate,
commanding the placement of the
famed thorned crown on Jesus’s head
as he staked claim to his fate;
the world watches, cursed, as I am now.
The insanity of my eyes rage open to
the irony of past crucifixions before me,
plunging deep within the ill religious
creating an unsacrilegious temple
of my forbidden body.
The King kisses my lips, and augments me
from the dead of the reality that awaits me;
I ponder if Mary Magdalene could be the whore
weeping merciful at his feet, I could be forgiven
for my birth into this privileged life I know none other of.
“De-throned, de-boned, and deflowered lye cowards!”
Shouts the Knight of Shining Armor
as he plunders across the battlefields
to enslave the Queen from the King
overthrown from his indestructible castle.
And so begins the Rook and the Bishop
as they circle around me in silent steps;
I can’t see them. . .I can’t feel them. . .but
I can smell them. . .I can envision them. . .
And my bodice quivers, my thighs shiver
but my eyes weep when unbounded to
glimpse the Knight stripping me of power
of position of royalty; I raise my hands
in a last bout:
“Cry havoc and let slip the dogs of war!”
“Don’t turn around. . .
turn around. . .turn around. . .
brace yourself as the Devil
stands behind you.”
I hold tight, and take a deep. . .
deep. . .disturbing breath
right as the cat-o’-nine-tails
breaks through the air-
“Checkmate!” they whisper.
