Fianchetto
Only once did I get the holy man to work,
the day I sent Isolani to her death.
The rank and file in the market square
were getting restless, hemming in the bad bishop,
fending off black crusaders who would,
if their flat-footed dictator permitted,
dismount and enjoy the country air.
Deadlocked, it seemed, until my girl
walked past those pitchforks,
offered herself en passant to heaven
distracting those stalwart demonstrators
outside the corner castles,
one of which would be toppled
by this brilliant fianchetto
prayer beads gleaming, invoking Caissa,
justifying a gambit made by a peasant woman.
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