Aimee Nicole
New Traditions
It’s only August and so far in this three day heat wave
I can’t stop thinking about Christmas.
Last year we dipped our toes in separation and spent
the holiday at that movie theater two towns over.
After the credits rolled, we shared vegan Pan-Asian cuisine in a mostly empty
place on Dorrance St. making small talk like we were strangers.
I went to the bathroom and cried after we ordered fried
ice cream and gave my face a bath in the sink.
This year will be different because this year is already worse.
You still have all my childhood ornaments with no intention
of giving them back. My still fragrant gingerbread and fingerprinted pasta wreath.
My Charlie Brown tree that’s moved from college to car, to friend’s,
to aunt’s, to friend’s, to Florida, to childhood home, to first apartment,
to second apartment, to missing (a.k.a. treenapped).
My New Yorker comic Christmas plates that were a vintage
flea find (you always hated them but keep them out of spite).
You keep all this and more. You promise you will
leave the state this Christmas and never return.
You don’t tell me where you are going.
You do tell me you never want to see me again.
I can’t stop thinking about Christmas.
Last year we dipped our toes in separation and spent
the holiday at that movie theater two towns over.
After the credits rolled, we shared vegan Pan-Asian cuisine in a mostly empty
place on Dorrance St. making small talk like we were strangers.
I went to the bathroom and cried after we ordered fried
ice cream and gave my face a bath in the sink.
This year will be different because this year is already worse.
You still have all my childhood ornaments with no intention
of giving them back. My still fragrant gingerbread and fingerprinted pasta wreath.
My Charlie Brown tree that’s moved from college to car, to friend’s,
to aunt’s, to friend’s, to Florida, to childhood home, to first apartment,
to second apartment, to missing (a.k.a. treenapped).
My New Yorker comic Christmas plates that were a vintage
flea find (you always hated them but keep them out of spite).
You keep all this and more. You promise you will
leave the state this Christmas and never return.
You don’t tell me where you are going.
You do tell me you never want to see me again.
Biography
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Aimee Nicole is a queer poet currently residing in Rhode Island. She holds a BFA in Creative Writing from Roger Williams University and has been published by the Red Booth Review, Psychic Meatloaf, and Dying Dahlia Review, among others. For fun, she enjoys attending roller derby bouts and trying desperately to win at drag bingo.
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