When the Provo City Center Temple stood on stilts of steel, workers excavated the underlying dirt, propping her up like some queen in a palanquin, steady and regal on their shoulders. On my shoulder, a hand, guiding me away from those brick-and-mortar turrets into a separate world of signs and tokens — a language of knowing nods and lingering touch. Through an antique shop, a glittering speakeasy unfolded like Pandora’s box. He pulled me deeper, handing me liquor in a paper cup. A drag queen sang beneath a smiling, painted moon, tall and majestic on heels like stilts. Bodies bending like palm fronds, our palms touched, our lips touched, and I gave way to his worship: Lay me on a palanquin and never let me fall.