Climbing a mountain of skulls,
fragile ones that crumble.
Our palms race to steady ourselves,
not raised flat in prayer
but hastily bracing.
Dirt streams through our hands
but not holes through our hands.
Clutching fingers,
scrambling for solid places,
feet back-sliding,
catching eye-sockets.
Children slide past bones
sounding more confident.
The smooth, leering curves of skulls,
the faces of mortals.
This must be Golgotha.
He told us we would have to come.
Everyone must climb.
Always a plentiful supply of fresh skulls.
The Lord hovers above them
as He hovered above the waters.
He reaches down
placing His Body and Blood
Into our mouths
if we look up.
He cleanses the stubborn and persistent sand
With His breath.

© 2018 Mindy Goorchenko All rights reserved. Here is a link to my published poetry collection, The Latent Talent of Conception. Thank you for your support!

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