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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
slitherwhisper
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
dripping
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
www.geocities.com/hpl4ever/.
Poem © 2009 Ann K. Schwader. Photo by
Emil Kehnel,
2008.
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