Bones of the God
by Ann K. Schwader


(Cerrejon,  Northern Columbia)

When they find the bones of the god in the forest, they do not recognize them, though clouds weep blood and the fertile bargain stains their skin.   They see only the vertebrae of their calculations.  Sixty million years nose to tail-tip, two thousand five hundred pounds of lost monster, croc eater, anaconda eclipser.  Cursive on the shore of their imaginings, it basks in slow light.   

a flash

in the greenhouse panes


No matter that the forest lies changed, black and ancient.  That its harvesters do not adore the god’s gift as it falls, hurrying from their laden trucks to dance in it, faces lifted to its blessing. The dry cenote of this place still thirsts.  When the god’s axe splits these poisoned skies–when mining roads twist slick and fatal–it will thirst no more.   

temple ruins

gape of the rain-bringer




About the Author:

Ann K. Schwader lives and writes in Westminster, Colorado.  Her poetry has recently appeared in Star*Line, Strange Horizons, Scifaikuest, The Heron's Nest, and elsewhere.  Her SF/Lovecraftian sonnet sequence, In the Yaddith Time, was published in 2007 by Mythos Books.  More information on her work may be found at    




Poem © 2009 Ann K. Schwader. Photo by Emil Kehnel, 2008.