Two Poems • Aimee Nicole

The Red Sox

It never matters how angry, how disappointed
we are watching the Red Sox lose.
The next morning, we pull that
red and blue sweatshirt over our heads
and sport a goofy grin like it’s the morning after
the best sex of our lives.


Rhode Island

Living in Rhode Island, we
grow up in glass houses.
Our neighbors see the dirty
laundry strewn across the floor,
the dishes caked with mold
staking like hotcakes in the sink.
Our parents won’t talk to us about
sex because they are too busy or too
Italian or too grossed out to watch
a Tampax commercial -- they grunt
and change the channel quickly
or leave the room for another beer.
We are like mice, trapped on the
same roads, in the same house, on
the same couch as the sun rises and
We watch the channel 10 news at 5
or 6:30 like a 15 year old teenager
watches free porn -- we are addicted.
To the news, to the drama, to the chaos.
We cling to it desperately as if it is reality
TV. (And yet, isn’t it the most genuine
reality TV program aired today?)
Our beady eyes like magnets to scandal.
Because without the drugs we used to
take and the sex we used to make, all we have
is the normalcy we fake. And one stone
thrown at our glass house will shatter it all.


In addition to appearing earlier in RBR
Aimee has work in or appearing soon in
Psychic Meatloaf and Petrichor Review.