Admit One
At the ticket window, I won’t follow
the body of the usher as she leans
to break a twenty with a press
of cash register and chest. She’ll tear
my ticket and pass twelve-fifty
beneath the glass, steering me
past the snack bar where two rows
of candies in loud yellow boxes
will glow like lines on a highway
and lead me to my seat. The previews
will warn R for restricted, S for sex
and V for violence, and I’ll remember
the V-neck of the usher’s sweater
and the fainter V drawn by her breasts.
Amanda Laughtland lives in the suburbs of Seattle. She has two chapbooks forthcoming, At Home (Mercy Seat Press) and I Meant to Say (overhere Press). Her poems have appeared most recently in 21 Stars Review, listenlight, The Onion Union and 42opus. (bookishly@yahoo.com)