Covet

Instructions for My Sons

42 Instructions for my sons: on falling asleep while reading Hawthorne Practice was hard. And the ice bagged and strapped to your knee had finally numbed the pain. The orange blanket was warm, the chair certain and snug as a cradle, the light soft over your shoulder— the lines simply blurred when you turned the third page of “The Minister’s Black Veil.” You were already wondering what it had to say to you anyway, and you let your eyes shutter a second, then again, before your head snapped back, then again, then slumped, as the landscape of sorrow and judgment dimmed; church bells were muffled by a thumping heart, a shush of breath steady as prayer. I don’t know what you dream, this afternoon or ever, and what part Hawthorne plays in your escapes, what part champion fields. I do not know what you haven’t revealed and I will not wake you now. Finish 43 the story later; there’ll be a reckoning we both know: the minister, the swollen joint, sweet veil of sleep on your unmarked brow. ...