PLAYING AT FAMILIES Poem by Caroline Bird

When you can pick up your mother in thickset hands,
roll her over and tenderly remove her wings.

When you can rip off your father's moustache
with a twitch of finger and thumb,

telling him, ‘It'll never do good with the ladies,
not any more.'

When you can place them on your shelf,
like miniature models, knowing that every night

they search the bedroom,
looking for lovers and empty wine bottles,

but melt into the carpet when you open your eyes.
When you can arrange your grandparents in tiny velvet chairs

and gently put them in the embers of the fire,
soothing them through cooing lips

that you're ‘Well fed and educated,' so there's no need to worry.
When you can put your relatives in separate boxes

to make sure they don't breed or cut each other's hair
while you're out of the house.

When you can lift them, light as a feather, kiss them
and tuck them in matchbox beds,

making sure your family are locked in innocent slumber,
before leaving to go clubbing every night.

When you can do all this, then you have to face the guilt
when finally, after too many years, you creep back in

to find each wide awake and crying
that they hadn't known where you were.