An Altar Made of Bone

Two years had passed and there He was, still as massive as a bull elephant. Triceratops. A proper name. His old bones unshaken, I was small before Him again, overwhelmed. A brief flash in the annals of the universe, He was older than I could imagine (I am a universe to the microbes of my skin, older than time itself).

It is strange to me how every time I stand before Him I am fixed in place, a microbe myself before his ancient form. It is strange to me that the tremors never cease, that there is no lessening of the force of His presence– repetition makes things familiar, yes? Should I be a jaded brat before his ossified mass? No. Some things are too sacred.

A whole earth to my microbes, I dared a photograph. Is there blasphemy in a faith taken on instinct? But holy, holy are impermanent things. The digital is ephemeral; I will delete it when I am home, erasing my footprints as I walk forward.

I heard a calling, His bones to mine: “Be open. Stay open.”

Tears would have pushed me under, but my love touched me on my shoulder, an electric jolt into another universe. Is there blasphemy in the temple of the moment, before the river of time? The instant was undone.

“Be open. Stay open.” The echoes are a wave.

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