Glass Poetry Press

Volume Six Issue One

Amanda Schoen

Children of the Burgess Shale

Here's the spine of the world: a gray ridge jutting from the peat. Hunchbacked. Broken. The angles of its vertebrae misaligned. Crippled under the weight of the sky. Here lies Ymir, fallen titan, who seeded these hills with his bones — or imprints at least: trilobite ghosts we tripped over, a marvel. Or maybe a memory. Calcified shadows carved into stone. No chisel could cleave their epitaph more clearly. They wrote with their bones: Here we stand. But no longer.