This poem, although related to my love of cooking, captures the layered intimacy of teaching my husband to play chess; a game of rules and possibilities that somehow became a mirror of how we relate to each other.
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I stir the soup like a rook pacing the edge of the chessboard,
not bold but deliberate, staying near the broth’s safe borders,
while you move through my thoughts with the ease of a knight,
cutting diagonals in places I thought were settled, seasoned, finished.
You sit at my table and smile like this is only dinner,
like the pawns don’t matter,
as if every bite hasn’t been laced with the ache of planning
how to love you without being seen doing it.
The steam rises like old arguments I never voiced,
checkmate tucked into the garlic like a secret I dare you to taste.
I serve dishes like metaphors,
measured not by hunger but by the hope you’ll linger a little longer,
that maybe dessert will change your mind,
even though I know some matches are lost before the board is set,
and I was always playing for more than you were.
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About the Creator
Diane Foster
I’m a professional writer, proofreader, and all-round online entrepreneur, UK. I’m married to a rock star who had his long-awaited liver transplant in August 2025.
When not working, you’ll find me with a glass of wine, immersed in poetry.
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Comments (1)
I remember once as a child playing chess with my older brother. He was beating me badly, but something about the board.... After studying it for just a while longer, I sacrificed my remaining pieces to him one by one in rapid succession, only to leave the board in stalemate. My king was not in check but had nowhere to move. Perhaps stalemate remains possible & this game need not come to an end.