i think about being
lips fat, blood-heavy, the pawn immutable
as my heartbeat on the gut of the
He clawed the queen forward in
He had insisted we play with a timer.
even as the air slowed to a pulse
his skin careened in armies
indestructible pieces here and there, makeshift
arteries the year winter came plump
and he lived in the snow—
till my minute
arm was upright like an oak
and there were words
Darcy Chanin is a budding mathematician and poet with a flair for all flavors of thought experiment. She enjoys finding couplets in her group theory textbooks. Her writing has appeared in thickjam.