Sharon
Hoffmann

My father – my foster father, who

renamed me Robert – paced restlessly

and looked at his watch again and again,

muttering angrily how late we’d be.

I barely dared to breathe, afraid

he might let loose his wrath on me

rather than my mother at the mirror,

putting on makeup to hide a bruise.

Later, at Second Baptist, well-mannered

and well-dressed, we joined the choir

in singing Softly and Tenderly –

we, who had no knowledge of tenderness.