Another dusty chile-growing town Just off the highway in New Mexico, With banners, flags, & streamers hanging down To brighten streets where weekend tourists go . . . Yet ancient, alien malevolence Twists through this scene of rural innocence. Though every booth & table in the square Entreats Our Lady’s favor on this day Of celebration, few outsiders care To question further. Locals glance away, Or offer a cervaza – Ice cold! Free! — In hopes the curious will let things be. Some few, alas, do not. As afternoon Wears on into a raggedy parade Which manifests no sign of ending soon, These unwise souls go seeking after shade Down narrow streets where shadows twine & snake, Luring them onward to their last mistake. A low adobe chapel wedged between Two buildings lost already to the earth Seems quaint enough – until the altar screen, Adorned with serpent-shapes whose length & girth Suggest some mythic origin. Outside, The throb of drums begins. But where to hide? Before the altar, one tile out of place Reveals a glimpse of darkness echoing Off rough-carved stairs descending into space Which stinks of primal musk. Though everything Of reason rules against it, still those drums Spark horror in their hindbrains. Down they come. What waits below is older than Man’s dreams Of deity in his own image. Here Within this cavern sanctified by screams & sacrifice for generations, fear Assumes a shape instinctively profane — A writhing, hissing insult to the brain. Past other totem animals of faith, The serpent grips imagination tight Within its coils: thus Yig, dread father-wraith Of rattlesnakes who haunts the desert night — & shadowing that presence, She who bore Him & his demon siblings by the score. The azure atmosphere of deep K’n-Yan First held the mysteries of Her worship, while This young world harbored other lords than man: Star-spawned abominations, strange & vile, Who voyaged deathless through the vacuum seas To spread their stain on our mythologies. Struck suddenly aghast before Her form Whose twin mouths gape with venom & desire, The interlopers (too late!) hear a swarm Of devotees descending, bearing fire & sharp obsidian to spill that wine Most suited to Our Lady’s dark design. Another sleepy chile-growing town Just off the highway in New Mexico, But now these precious fields lie green, not brown, Beneath the sun. Best tourists never know The secret of this land’s fertility . . . O Serpent-Skirted One Who Should Not Be!

Ann K. Schwader’s most recent collection of dark verse, Twisted in Dream, was published in Dec. 2011 by Hippocampus Press. Her previous collection, Wild Hunt of the Stars (Sam’s Dot), was a Bram Stoker Award finalist for 2010. Objects from the Gilman-Waite Collection, a tale of art and betrayal, is forthcoming in Book of Cthulhu II. Ann lives, writes, & volunteers at her local branch library in suburban Colorado. To learn more about her work, visit her website.

About her poem, Ann says: “Coatlicue is one of the bloodier female deities in the Aztec pantheon (are there any nice ones?), and it just struck me that Yig might have been one of her children. She is the mother of other gods, so why not? I really enjoy digging into mythology to find the Secret History of the Mythos – it’s amazing how often you can find something useful. I also love trying things with the Zelia Bishop collaboration stories, because ZB was a woman of the West, writing about the West.”

Story illustration by Ronnie Tucker. If you enjoyed this story, let Ann know by commenting — and please use the Facebook, Twitter, and Google Plus buttons below to spread the word. Return to the table of contents