Size / / /

The one who rode it died. We know his shape

from scans our elders made before the Fall:

entombed by accident or failed escape

from orbit, he is otherworldly tall

& twisted in a pallid shadow-knot

within his spheroid sealed forever by

reentry's kiss of peace. Sublime & hot

as seraph breath, it seared across the sky

that night they came—& hovered—then withdrew

again from all our wondering, wounded world.

The fact of them undid us through & through:

when dogmas die, their war-flags come unfurled.

So many saviors rose to separate

the wheat from chaff, the chaff from bleeding wheat,

that few survived such grace to contemplate

this blameless catalyst of our defeat.

What star begot these bones, we may not learn

until the rapture of their azure light

returns to claim the faithful. Though we burn

in our ascension through that last good night,

dark energy beyond waits cool & deep.

Our souls shall taste nirvana in such sleep.

Ann K. Schwader lives, writes, and volunteers at her local branch library in Westminster, CO. Her most recent poetry collection is Twisted in Dream (Hippocampus Press 2011). Her dark SF poetry collection Wild Hunt of the Stars (Sam's Dot Publishing, 2010) was a Bram Stoker Award nominee. She is a member of SFWA, HWA, and SFPA. Her LiveJournal is Yaddith Times.
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8 Apr 2024

the burrowing spiders, / backs the size of satellites, / orbiting your hair
And these meteors still fall to the earth.
Graduate Assistant Four Fronds Turning had made the best guacamole that Mike had ever tasted in his original or post-revival life, and it was all wrong.
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