The Game

The Game

She asks, what dreams may be, what dreams for me,
a pawn sacrificed, from daughter to wife
for riches gained, for connections, to see
a family well-rise, though bought with her life.
Come smile, come dance, enchant, and charm, a king
can be a fool, a fool a king, embrace
the chase where you’re the lure to snag the ring.
So, bards will sing and painters paint—a trace
of her may remain after death, a child
might live to rule. She’ll have the final laugh.
But she won’t know, if beguiled or reviled,
she smiles and waits, a pause midst notes on staff,
one bar sung. A moment in time and place
so bright, but small compared to sun or moon.
Hand-fasted, on a square within a space
she waits with hope, with doubt, with thoughts fine-tuned.
Now, she’s played queen’s gambit, now she is queen–
moves played…