Monday, July 9, 2012


The "hatchback-sized" meteorite slammed down into the Gobi Desert in China. Scientists cut it open and found amber-colored olivine in a silvery nickel-iron honeycomb inside. They cut it into sheets that looked like stained-glass windows. Amateur jewelry designers created necklaces and earrings inspired by the geode from space and sold them on Etsy. Amateur poets like me, entranced by words like "olivine" and "honeycomb," struggled to articulate why everyone found the rock so beautiful, why everyone wanted to take the mythical object and fit it into our known framework of sacred places, personal adornments, written odes. We felt as if we'd summoned the meteorite, drawn it home. It was as if we'd gone fishing, had reeled in a creature silvery and gleaming and agape in the sun of its new world, and we couldn't stand it; we had to gut it, we had to cut its head off, we had to cook it, and we had to eat it.
Photo by Arizona Meteorite Laboratory

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