Two Poems by J-T Kelly

Arrested

The clouds were hurrying away.
A movement in his chest,
as if a rib had come dislodged,
caused him to pause and test
the limits of his fragile shape.
His left arm seemed fine, he guessed.

He straightened up and walked inside
and sat and didn’t say,
between the bread and meat, a thing
about the cloudy day
he’d glimpsed beyond his gasps, about
the hurrying away.

Gardening

The soil was never any good
behind the house —
glass bits glittered from the seedbed.

She grew as much food as she could.
She found a mouse
once, eating what she’d harvested.

A metal rake’s tooth through its head,
and mouse blood doused
the earth and mixed with her blood — shed

from knees and fingers. They must be fed,
children and spouse;
trespasser and gardener, both must be bled.

J-T Kelly is an innkeeper in Indianapolis. He lives in a brick house with his wife and six children, his two parents, and a dog.