Brother Anderson Counsels His Son the Night Before Being Sealed “For Time and All Eternity” in the Salt Lake Temple

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[Editor’s Note: For the designed poet, see the PDF below]

“For behold, I reveal unto you a 
new and an everlasting 
covenant; and if ye abide not 
that covenant, then ye are 
damned; for no one can reject 
this covenant and be permitted 
to enter into my glory . . .

“And for this cause, that men 
might be made partakers of the 
glories which were to be 
revealed, I sent forth the fulness 
of my gospel, my everlasting 
covenant, reasoning in plainness 
and simplicity . . . . ” 
—Doctrine and Covenants 132:4, 133:57 

and 
whatever you do, don’t 
go smiling 
totally into it 
because 
after the wash and annointing, kneeling on velour pillows at the foot
of marble altars beneath the fairy lights, charmed 
by your photogenic genius, dittoed 
double down the forever funnel 

of cross-firing mirrors, after 

holy white hair, the gentle voices 
beyond the veil 
leading you down the brass 
rod and back into flashbulbs, carnations, skyscraper cakes, the aisles
of hands and best wishes, the long tables 
streaming with fruits and cheeses; after 

retreating, unwrapping the His & Hers, 
stoneware, your bride, 
six fondue pots; after mocking 
the August rain, car payments, the seed 
that still can’t touch you; after 

discovering headaches, celluloid 
and Hamburger Helper; after washing the sheets, swapping
scuba tanks and shot guns 

for Pampers and Winnie 
the Pooh; after picking 
hairs from the sink, the stony 
nights smelling of gardenias; after rain 
the sun slopped on your plate, the sky a burned out 
bulb— 

you can bag your fantasies 
and sit 

back down because 
there’s still this matter 
of covenants, of reaching over shoulder 
without reacting, offering your blind side—the ring, the rice
the lithographs: peripheral, filler 
for the society

page. My father, never eloquent: Wyoming dairy 
farmer, part-time surveyor, lost his legs 
so he could better say what he wanted. Shot straight. 
Made his point: summer night, just down 
from pasture, moon cruising the canal, smell 
of sage and muddy hands: “Don’t 
graze in someone else’s pasture . . .

Your mother, she couldn’t lace her boots 
but I dragged her mumbling 
in levis and plaid pendleton half way up Mt. Whitney 
and she thanked me years later bursting 
into an emergency room just 
as the surgeon on-call 
was smoothing the adhesive over 
her brow—’Sara Mortenson-Anderson’—she’d 
been getting that way, finicky about titles, activities—no more ‘Mort’
or ‘Smorgasbord,’ the Balboa Classic. She

was heading for her night class 
at Cody CO They say she could have been 
a concert pianist. 

I’m still serving time: the sisters come in threes 
and never stop 
knocking. Remorse, 

never regret. 

You are Christ’s 

younger brother, God’s child. But the cold north, a viking in your blood: be tamed 
when tempted. Remember 

the promises. And when you stumble, no 
hari-kari cop-outs. No 
weekends at Tahoe. The sacrifice 
simple and rinsed. 
Love 

before making love. Remember 
the Third-Party Mediator of this world. 

Pray often, in your closet. 

Now go, and be happy. Forever’s 
a damn long time.”