Dogtag dies into plane-spotted sky and knows I will write this about him. 

 

The month of his life as I lived it: the cafeteria seat I kept between us,

and how he let me win at chess when he thought I’d write his eulogy. I can’t think

of many nice things to say anymore, other than he let me win, and that his funeral

is highly attended. I say nothing to his open grave and his knight,

highly dressed in a stolen suit, says everything else:

 

To die with his eyes open and watch the dirt fall over him. To die so kindly to himself

and unkindly to me. A hero’s death with his dogtag necklace buried alongside. 

 

I think I’m afraid of him. How beautiful he is across a cafeteria I can’t

reach. The first time he saw me, he froze, and it made me stop

a cafeteria seat short. Peace offering turned no-man’s land. He crossed it

once, to kick my feet off the bar. I’d trapped his king in a corner, 

he was just playing stupid. He’s always got another board to corner into.

 

Now his necklace hangs too low, like a wounded flag. 

He had nothing to grieve except his taken knight, his stolen suit, 

but God how I wanted it to be more. He’s only ever been interesting when losing to me.

 

A week ago, Dogtag called so he could think I was side-eying,

or to see if I had gotten any worse at chess.

I would have said something about unkind hero deaths then, if he listened,

if he would let me. Instead I let him know I wouldn’t mourn,

not unless I was the one who cut his artery myself. 

 

In the casket he looks away. I never stopped looking.