A-minor

by Erica Goss

Bare soil makes me nervous.
It looks so vulnerable, like

a book without a cover, or a bed
without a blanket. I spread newspapers

over it, anchor the fluttering pages with
stones. I’m thinking, quantum theory

is bullshit. I’m only ever here and now.
But soil splits again and again, darkest

of matter. And that makes me nervous too.
How breaking down is not optional.

It’s a matter of darkness, the way my hand
against the earth eclipses the tiny sharps

and hollows pressing into my palm.
At the garden store, plastic bags of mulch

rise in stacks over my head. Each one promises
to nourish, cover, protect, but that’s not what

really matters. These are bags of darkness. I
can barely lift them, but manage to load

a couple into my car. I haul them home, tear them
open, drop handfuls on the newspaper. No more

trauma of bare soil, naked to sun, wind, rain.
No matter what, I’m making darkness.

Erica Goss is the author of Night Court. Recent and upcoming publications include The Georgia Review, The Colorado Review, Oregon Humanities, Creative Nonfiction, North Dakota Quarterly, Spillway, Redactions, Consequence, Slant, The Pedestal, and Critical Read. Erica served as Poet Laureate of Los Gatos, CA, 2013-2016. She edits Sticks & Stones.