These are the things we’ve never been permitted

to talk about: the bruises from Daddy, the scars

from the broken Sunday School slate. Whether

we were bad (which we were – tic tac toe on the pews),

whether our sisters were good (they slept in

the same room with him, so anything that

happened was mum, and made them proud,

at first). Later, after they realized, not all

fathers take such liberties, they were angry

with us. They would have taken the beatings,

any day, if we had taken the worst,

from the inside out.