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.
It’s boring and it’s self-indulgent
and it’s pretty-word-tat.
Write about something you don’t know
that’s where it’s at.
