Spring 2020, Volume 28

Poetry by Amy Soricelli

Christmas Morning

My uncle had a fight with my aunt last night.
He told her, 
some things matter more than others.
He had four Miller lights and a scotch with water before
he said that.
The small hairs on my arm stood up when he yelled 
about the oil bill, food, 
gas for the car.
The Christmas slippers sat dying in their paper,
tangled, and confused in flat, red ribbons.
Some peanuts from the party were scattered next to the dish;
someone left five dollars on the couch.  
I gave her nothing.  
He said.
Those dinners after church meant nothing. 
Remember those dinners after church?
Half my check. 
I watch my aunt move her hair behind her ears.
She doesn't hear the backfiring car, or the lazy hum of the refrigerator.
Nothing good is here with us.
My cousin rubs his face and pours watery coffee into a thin, filmy glass.
What ? he asks.
He sees us looking at him.
My uncle turns on the news to a story about a lost dog that traveled 
seventy-two miles in the snow to get home.
We all listen.




BIO: Amy Soricelli has been published in numerous publications and anthologies including Dead Snakes, Corvus Review, Deadbeats, Long Island Quarterly, Voice of Eve, The Long Islander. Sail Me Away (chapbook) Dancing Girl Press, 2019. Nominated by Billy Collins for Emerging Writer's Fellowship 2019 and for Sundress Publications "Best of the Net" 2013. Recipient of the Grace C. Croff Poetry Award, Lehman College, 1975.