Stonecrop Magazine

I was dreaming when I wrote this: Thou shalt not covet. I must have been dreaming of some other species. Of anything but humans.   

I was dreaming when I wrote this. Of managing greed. Somehow, managing emotion.  

Thou shalt not steal. Thou shalt not kill. Take not my name in vain. These are actions. Specifics. Steps to be taken. Or, more accurately, not taken. To steal—this takes action. To kill—resolve, and weapon. To curse—even this sin takes place upon the lips.  

But to covet. To covet. This is invisible. This takes place somewhere even I can scarcely see.  

And so, how astounding, that you were punished for it. This most invisible of sins. Every day, sitting in your row, spine erect, you folded your hands and asked Tom to use his pencil. The special one, with Superman. Your own three pencils are tan. They bear no flexing heroes.  

Every day Tom leans over. He nods with a smile. He prefers Green Lantern anyway. You are always careful to return Tom’s pencil. You know it is not right to steal. But you hold it, so delicate, as if it is a wand. A scepter that waves wishes real. I see you walk to the sharpener, steady as a monarch, a young priest bearing the wafer.  

The Superman pencil has shortened with time, head ground down by whirring blades and math problems. Eraser scraped almost clean.  

You are so, so careful to return the pencil to Tom. He knows your own mother cannot afford such trifles. He’s spied the plain, tan ones in your book bag.  

But your teacher—she senses something amiss. She hovers above you, leans over your work, your carefully loop-de-looped cursive. She sees Tom with the Green Lantern, you with Superman. Again and again. You are her pupils, after all. She sees you five days a week.  

One day after class she tells you to hang back. Peering over her glasses, she asks you my Commandments. You recite them by heart, hands behind your back, eyes on the crucifix above her broad desk. A hierarchy of authority. She stops you on the last one. Thou shalt not covet. She asks if you know what this means.  

You nod, and she asks about Tom’s pencil. “You want it,” she says. “That pencil.”  

Reluctantly, you nod. But before you can explain, can convince her you have no intention of thieving, she sighs and hands you a chalk piece.  

“Fifty times,” she barks. “Right here. On the chalk board. Write it. ‘I shall not covet.’”  

I watch you, knowing. I must have been dreaming. Surely, I was dreaming when I wrote this. Even Superman covets. Even I, your God, covet. To undo desire would be to undo grace. To pull at the seams of your making.  

Your white lines grow, in flawless cursive. One tear rolls down your cheek. And this I know: I must have been dreaming. To write mere desire a sin.