The cinema had one hundred seats—empty, all, when we slid in

and roved plum chair-backs for humps of head

and soaked

in the blood-black sludge of that womb,

that smaller-than-a-cinema.

There was a film.

You watched it.

I saw images, sometimes,

and felt how it might feel

to feel you rest

your arm by mine,

to see

your jumper hairs vine

with mine

By Leaf Arbuthnot

Leaf Arbuthnot is a poet from the UK, currently studying at Yale as a fellow in the French Department. She did French and Italian at Cambridge University where she spent a lot of time writing haikus and editing her college’s arts magazine. She is a cartoonist for the Yale Daily News and regularly publishes her drawings and poetry on her culture website,



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