Browsing a library copy of What to Expect,
I imagine St. Jerome, making by candlelight
the infamous error.
Thus for twelve hundred years
Moses will have, not a divine glow,
but horns crowning his head.
Even Michelangelo will go along with it
and carve two marble nubs.
The book—revised edition—is well-thumbed.
A Bic-blue sad face contemplates
a paragraph on circumcision.
But we’ve barely covered feeding,
I think. And what about…? And what about…?
I have to put it down.
Son, you’re still months away:
It’s too much time, and not enough
to tell which are the horns, and which the light.
But I’ll keep reading, my little covenant,
if you teach me how.