California backsliders escaping wildfire, we beg clean-cut cousins we hardly know for Salt Lake City distraction. When I was your age, says Aunt Staunch, my first boyfriend showed me Gilgal on Fifth South.  Somebody’s rough backyard, a hidden thing, a stonemason’s mystery. Scriptures carved on twisted stones, stacked and scattered on a hill, like body parts.

Bible prophecies. A sphinx with the head of Joseph Smith. Wild, like the true religion — perfect for you, apostates from the flames. 

Now, one cousin says, it’s a city park with a gate, a website, guidebooks.

At the entrance Aunt Staunch whispers: It was better then. I miss it, though the stones remain. That boyfriend died in a fire — lost, like the wild. I long for him still.