This title of poem was a challenge laid down by Tristan's mum (whom I have never met), while visiting Tristan in Tashkent (as you do).
The title opened a flood gate of memories of my dad bringing home a box chocolates from London occasionally for us to enjoy at the weekend.
lyrics
My five-year old eyes edge across the chocolate box chessboard;
slyly surveying alternate chequers: light and dark,
of cocoa depths, of milk, of soft and harder centres
of bittersweet and sugarsweet,
of nougat and of nut.
Each piece with its peculiar persona,
from pawn-like pralines, sacrificed en passant,
to key components, commanding diagonals,
king-slaying combatants.
Me. A prodigious grand master on this stage of strategy.
Kasparov against his nemesis: his pyjamaed Dad,
eyes Deep Blue, in Saturday morning lethargy;
Chocolates in bed, a ritual weekend luxury,
swept down from the Smoke on the Friday night train,
and served up with tea and a custard cream.
My move, by convention, is first.
I favour the lime barrel, its tangy, verdant drippiness
ideally crafted to infant tastes.
But. I also have a penchant for that creamy
half-moon segment. The orange fondant.
My daddy’s signature piece.
Dilemma. Do I secure my position?
Take the barrel while I may?
This spangly citrus bomb, viridian essence;
liquor from South Italy. A Sicilian defence?
Or do I play the gambit?
Swipe enemy’s orange from the tray?
And leave the lime to languish?
Vulnerable? Never! Non! Jamais!
I glance up. My father’s steely eyes,
inscrutable as seconds slip away.
A Nazi’s eyes - too alike mine own - capable of sacrificing
self, and pawns, and bishops to secure the day.
He is the New World Order,
Where fruity fondants are swept into the maw
without mercy, without quarter.
My mother, watching these rivals, dear yet fell,
has other tastes.
Her brown eyes covet coffee, hazelnuts, and cracknel.
For she can wait.
She knows when battle’s done and we have reached endgame,
the debris of the chocolate box will be hers to claim.
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