Anti-Poem

She was my mother’s sister
still is.

She looked like a lesbian might
look, but wasn’t.

Her arms were hairy, but only
just so; just enough.

Her curves were wide-angled
and I suffered young guilt.

I once presented a poem
to her, and she said:

Ah writing about something you know,
unfortunately no-one will give a shit.

Write about something you don’t know
that’s where it’s at.