Now that you are gone what I remember most
is the size of your hands—as big as oven mitts
I see them wrapped around a hoe handle,
then imagine them in boxing gloves when you were young:
The sound of the bell and
your frame towering over the other man.
You drove an hour to get there—
a ring in the center of a park
moths dotting the lights
faces shining in the summer night—
someone passes around a quart of moonshine
your brothers cheer you on, then
your opponent falls like a sack of feed
your hand is raised over your head.
You catch your breath
and it’s over.
Amanda Kelley has worked as a graduate assistant, advertising sales representative, substitute teacher, newspaper reporter, delivery driver, property manager, and retail salesperson at a hardware store and at a lingerie shop. She is currently an MFA candidate at the University of Kentucky. Her work has appeared in The Accolade, Inscape, JMWW, Kentucky Monthly’s Writers’ Showcase, and Eunoia Review. She lives in Lexington, Kentucky with the poet Sean L Corbin and their two sons.