By Becky Bei
The patriarch sits on the emerald chair in the dining room
bewildered, bemused, at the jokes shared among his children,
narrated in passing by the woman on the moon
so long ago - but they still catwalk up his ear,
from gaming landscapes, not the psychedelic houses in a line
or the kindergarten beside the circle village
or the flats on top of the pearl hills
from Polaroids yanked out of a crying infant's mouth.
Say cheese, mind the platform gap.
At the pageant, the babel fish must have decided to free itself
and swim to the rabbit's hut, which has got to be the reason why
the crusading children cannot talk in the skyward elevator now,
not to the house in the suitcase, not to the woman on the moon,
but still remember how to tie up the laces on their baby shoes.
About Becky Bei:
Becky Bei is a writer from Asia, where she is currently studying. Her work has been published in The Weight Journal, Ice Lolly Review, Blue Things Zine, and elsewhere.