As you made fire,
so you made me.
From the skull of a bear you killed
not because she was attacking
or had attacked before
but because she might attack
From the skin of a sleeping lion
you tracked and speared and thanked
From these things, you made a god.
From nothing, you made the idea of god.
You named me as you name your children.
In me you pour your prayers
as you store meat in your clay pots.
I am your bear-lion-god.
I am dead things. Empty space. And power.
What do we make next?
When I was little, I was fascinated by a picture in one of my books on prehistoric life that represented early humans worshipping a bear skull god. Later, Neil Gaiman’s description of an ancient ritual in American Gods had a deep effect on me. Hence, this.