The Arcade

The Arcade



Prize every time,

the machine reads.

The sugar sticks to my teeth

too sweet.

I run my tongue around my mouth.


You put a penny in the slot.

The machine sways back and forth,

an incoming tide.

A 10 pence piece teeters on the edge.

I want it to spill over.

There's no rattle, clank, chink.

Unlucky this time.


You clutch my hand and we run

to the hall of mirrors.

We are infinite, warped and wavering,

silhouettes distorted.


Your palm is clammy.

Our grip slips.

Small change spent,

Escape to the sea breeze.





written by Bethan Screen

Photography by Ashuni Lucía Pérez