and I am in Proverbs, 
reading about fools and dogs
returning to their vomit. 

Creaking down the stairs the teen
sits beside me at the table –
poor sleep, he says, wondering

what the consequences would be for lying
to me last night, my most pet
of all the peeves – I still haven’t decided.

He wants to know what I’m doing 
I almost say looking up punishments
but think better of it

and show him the difference in translations –
King James, Jimmy, of my childhood
with his narrow margins

and the new translation I’m looking at now.
He picks up the old version, likes 
how worn it feels and its flapping

broken spine. On the frontispiece
my maiden name sits indelible and the date
says I was his age

when I was given this Bible
and this Bible is the same age I was
when he was born.