You said you were not out to your grandmother
Why would you be,
I’ve never read copperplate so angry, so paint-peeling disappointed
As the letter I received from my grandma Betty to your Belle
She used to send me letters with money folded inside
Missives of tea and crosswords and things my grandpa was doing in the garden
Though I told her that was dangerous and she should save it
She said, “Save it? For when I’m dead?”
And yet, instead that week I opened up her letter
Pages longer that the usual
All so sad, so sombre and offended
Asking what she had done and what she could do
To undo the thing between me and you and me and that other girl that other time
I could not imagine her undoing it
Your spinach tofu sandwiches
Me in my suit, you on your burgundy BMX,
I had glandular fever and instead they thought I was depressed
All those long slow mornings dredging myself up from bed
Sloping from class to class, mooning from work to bar,
Lying down in your bed, or saying we would sneak onto my roof
Remember the priests?
How every time you came to my house there was a priest?
Like seeing a midget on a rainy day
We always felt surprised and surreal.
When she was almost dead and shrivelled to sultana
My nanna asked me if I was still a bisexual
I said it was like my Catholicism and I was non-practising
Which satisfied her only part-way.
eleanor j jackson 