Absolute Defeat
 
The day my father beat my grandfather
at chess was the last time they played the game –
that unforgiving pastime. I recall
how my dad would turn purple in his rage
at all life’s disappointments. We remain
a stubborn breed, we kick against the pricks.
 
In chess, defeat your enemy – and not
in partial victory, but absolute.
Remove his pieces one by one and take
command of the board’s space until his king
is at a loss for refuge. When my dad
would play me, we began unevenly –
 
he’d spot me queen or rook or knight, until
that day we played chess evenly at last.
My grandpa, I played checkers with, in my
tiger pajamas. I was maybe five,
and we picked grapefruit from the trees outside
in Texas heat – he with his speech machine
 
and cigarettes, I with my youthful looks.
We walked around the property. I have
his hammer to this day, though it has been
some fifty years. I sometimes take a board
to play chess with my son, though I have lost
what skill I had for absolute defeat.
 
John Isbell

If you have any thoughts about this poem,  John Isbell would be pleased to hear them