She said she
saw the enemy coming, and I can't say it's
X-ray specs or something sadder, a marathon run of
Nazi newsreels, that gives her to watch my life in
black and white. There are, not here, any
kings or
knights or
bishops, nothing black, nothing white: there are, in this game,
colors, and
patterns, and
hope as often as hurt. I do not even mind
losing tonight. I think she thinks she heard the enemy running, and woke me up to say so, as if I had a deathwish. I don't want to tell her how I feel about the
wolf, inside and outside the sheepskin he wears. She wouldn't believe I'm not his prey; rather,
I crave the taste of dying men, and I want to fly without
fear someday, over the piles of bones I leave; she would not believe
I'm the worst of it this time, wizened and mean, more than strong enough to break a man before I break. She ought to teach me to
fear myself.