Soup Season
zugzwang: noun (in chess) a situation in which the obligation to make a move in one’s turn is a serious, often decisive, disadvantage
I said zugzwang, not soup season, although
since you mention it, this is a good time
for soup, now that I’ve gotten into a bad position…
The days are shorter, they’re selling mums
at all the grocery stores, and some kids
in my neighborhood already carved jack-o-lanterns…
I know I’ve got beans in the kitchen, spinach,
a bottle of stock. There’s always a good onion
and garlic in the fridge, a wedge of Parmesan.
How can I get myself out of this mess?
For weeks I’ve been thinking about how much
I’d like a small place up in the Adirondacks—
just me and a few raccoons. Vita contemplativa—
a cross between St. Francis preaching to birds
and Tu Fu—lots of books, lots of beer,
which probably sounds boring to most people,
like soup, they might say, without beef or chicken—
but I live a simple life, and don’t want much…
That’s a double-edged, fingers-crossed assertion,
yes, and I keep reminding myself of Heraclitus,
who insisted in one of his lesser known sayings
that nothing is worse for a human being
than to achieve, or have granted,
the thing one wants most…
Typical American, I answer back, try me…
I’m ready. I understand why Duchamp turned away
from art to study the ten thousand lines of Ruy Lopez—
even though somewhere in the back of his mind
an old man kept playing accordion music
while reciting the rosary…Chess takes over from ethics
quite easily. Clear rules on a standardized board.
Each piece has a defined set of movements.
Tactics, strategies are all well explored,
the theory is sound. One can have, even from the first
exchange of pieces, not a premonition,
but a future-perfect sense—
the-will-have-done—of one’s situation…
Not everyone can be like Brutus at Philippi
after he saw Julius Caesar leaning against a tree,
his old friend, waiting for him…Of all the pieces,
only the knight doesn’t move in straight lines.
Still, one wants to gallop. Leap over pawns and queens.
Deliver a smothered mate. I am starting to crave
something warm and hearty, a thick stew,
something you can put a slice of dry bread in
to soak up the juice. I better start cooking…
It’s well known, but hard to accept—the most difficult
move to find is the one with the knight going back…
*
Camouflage
This world is too small for you. Maybe
your instinct agrees—a square room
with real plants, watered daily,
a real, but not living, tree—willow,
judging by its bark, though probably I’m fooled
by a zoo’s simulacrum. But the moss looks
genuine, green toupees
covering the branches. There you are…
It took me five minutes to find you.
Trios of children glanced in
your miniature jungle. Their reflections,
blurred at first, sharpened
as they approached the glass. I saw
bright colored clothes appear, left and right,
the opposite of camouflage,
and saw how the kids peered past
grayscale versions of themselves
that stood in their way, as mine did,
each of us confronted by a pale twin.
Behind us, casting smudged shadows
around our feet, the teachers waited,
hyper-vigilant, tense. I feel like an overgrown boy,
part of the field trip, but slow
to see what the others see. Finally, guided
by the girl beside me, who points in excitement,
I recognize you.
Fold on fold in loose coils, you hang from a branch,
as though lightning struck the tree,
and tangled around a limb.
Cool, supple, you provoke thunder
in my mind, even though you seem to be asleep.
Even though the charge that burst the air
and made you what you are
looks spent. Which side of the glass are we on?
Am I seeing only your reflection?
What if you are behind us, and if we turned,
we would see you as you really are,
a vibrant bolt of green diamonds.
With my face two inches from the glass,
I stand watching, the last one at your vitrine,
trying to avoid my reflection’s eyes. Hoping
you will wake. Change back into lightning,
I think, with just enough self-control to obey
signs that beg visitors not to tap the glass.
*
William Welch lives in Utica, NY where he works as a registered nurse. His poetry has appeared in various journals, including Little Patuxent Review, Stone Canoe, Rust+Moth, and Cider Press Review, and his collection Adding Saffron (Finishing Line Press) is forthcoming in 2025. He edits Doubly Mad (doublymad.org). Find more about him on his website, williamfwelch.com.