In the Memory and Cognition Room by Celia McCulloch

In the Memory and Cognition Room



Sparks of tinsel light up cobnuts and stub-ends
and Aunt Lizzie, big and dozy in her chair,
a knit/purl night-nurse slumped before the fire,
while you play with her ashtray. Press the button—
Zap—it opens, shows its black-ash heart.
Click. It shuts, and Lizzie almost stirs.
Tree lights dazzle behind their angel-hair.
In the next room, a parabola of laughter
in the yellow light where Uncle’s talking cock-
and-bull (and Father tells him so). The yips
of Scottie circle round the table begging scraps.
Your mother giggles, Granny fills her cup.
You know that you could join their paradise,
but see, for you, for them, it’d break the mood.
They’d ask, “Oh, has no one put the child to bed?”
You see it whole: the theys, the yous, the Is.
Like a squirrel you gather to yourself this nut,
and it feels something like forbidden fruit.


Copyright  Celia McCulloch